A Fate Worse Than Death
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: The original draft of A Matter of Life and Death. A life taken in violence is like a shout in the mountains, it leaves an echo. So Marian Knighton discovers when Guy of Gisborne plunges a sword in her belly, catapulting her to somewhere entirely different, Full summary inside.
1. The Bitter End

**Plot Summary: **A life taken in violence is like a shout in the mountains: it leaves an echo. A life left un-lived cannot pass on in peace, especially when a destiny is as important as Marian Knighton's. Murdered by a man who would rather see her dead than with the one she truly loves, something somewhere blocks her passage to the dead, and she wakes up somewhere far away.

**Author's Note:** This is the original "A Matter of Life and Death" before a second brainwave hit; the plot was radically altered and the characters roles were reversed. I found this original draft of the story as I backed up files ready to reinstall my OS and didn't want to waste it. So, here it is anyway. It's a totally different plot line to AMOLAD, dealing with two totally different time frames within the two fandoms. It's Marian's death (instead of Lucas's) and the episode where Lucas confronts his old torturer, Oleg Desharvin). Anyway, I hope people enjoy it.

* * *

**Chapter One: The Bitter End**

"I love Robin Hood."

Four words spoken in a split second; a split second in which a façade is finally brought crashing down. How casual Marian has made it sound; how casually she has snuffed out Guy's one remaining hope. It is harsh, but it is necessary. A life of lies consigned to the past; a subterfuge that cheapened her existence brought to its natural conclusion. The least she can do is see it through to the bitter end. She lifts her gaze to look into his eyes, sees the numb disbelief clouding his expression as the sword in his hand falls limp at his side. Emboldened by that gesture, she drives her point home.

"I love Robin Hood," she repeats. Then, almost as an afterthought, she elaborates further: "I'm going to marry Robin Hood." In the same split second it takes her to kill his hope, her own future unfolds in infinitesimal detail.

She looks back up at him, the colour rising in his normally pallid face. It's more than just the effects of the Palestinian sun that's doing it. His brow darkens into a frown as this new reality dawns. "No," he breathes. Guy isn't angry, but the eruption is coming. She can sense it and steps back as a pre-emptive caution. Too little, too late. The blow catches her in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of her lungs and making her fall forwards into his arms like a swooning lover.

The pain is intense, choking her so she cannot even cry out. She looks at him: 'what have you done?' she wants to ask. She had thought it just a punch, at first. But the blood is leaking down her front, she can feel it before she glances down to see it. The steel blade is cold against the heat of her flesh. He twists the blade with a muffled whimper and finally she cries out in pain and anguish. For a moment, they look each other in the eye, his expression is contorted in disbelief – he's regretting what he has done already.

What have you done? She still can't form the words and it's all she can think to ask as she sinks to her knees in hot desert sands. He's killed her, that's what he's done. They both know it, a final understanding passing between them as he lets her fall to the sand with the blade still sunk between her ribs. She hits the warmth of the cushioning sand and it still sends shock waves of pain washing over her.

"Marian!"

Robin's voice is distant, but enough to end the impasse between her and Guy, as well as send him running for the Sheriff. She no longer cares; she just wants Guy out of her life – even if she does have just a few precious minutes left of it. Gripping the sword to keep it steady, a desperate attempt to stop the pain, she manages to raise a small smile as Robin falls at her side, his face looming over hers and etched with grief.

"The King!," she cries out, twisting her neck with difficulty to try and get the monarch she'd just saved back in her line of vision. "Where's the King?"

"He's fine; you saved him," Robin assures her, gently smoothing back the hair from her brow.

Marian breathes a sigh of relief. Djaq has arrived, and she'll know what to do about the sword in her belly. "Well then, can we at least get this thing out of me?" she asks, preparing to wrench it free herself if need be.

However, just as she goes to do so, she catches the look exchanged between Robin and Djaq; confirming what she has known all along. A single tear drips from Djaq's eye, prompting her to ask anyway. "Will I die when it comes out?"

The fact is, she can feel her own life force ebbing away; her limbs like lead, it's as though she's watching the scene from above, she's leaving herself behind already. She thinks of all the time they wasted, the stolen moments when she could escape her fortified prison in the Castle. All those times she could have stayed in the Castle, but didn't. She tries to think why? What made her go back there, time and time again? Was it Guy? The promise of the man he could have been; sometimes even showed himself to be. He loved her, love kills. She thought it was a jest.

There's no more time to waste now, so she better be honest. "Then we don't have much time?" she says to Robin.

His trademark cockiness is gone, distorted and erased by ill suppressed grief. "We have forever, my love," he chokes between sobs, still smoothing back her hair, pressing wet kisses against her flushed skin.

Her vision is blurring as her eyesight begins to fail, her body – she knows – is closing down in stages. "I hope we have forever in Heaven, darling, because we didn't have enough time here on earth," she replies, weakly. Her breathing is shallow, her lungs beginning to falter as her heart beat slows to barely a trace.

Her father will be there. And her mother, so long dead. They are waiting for her and she pictures them in her mind as her eyes drift closed. It's her sole comfort as she falls away for the final time. She cannot bring herself to say goodbye to Robin, and she doesn't want to keep her beloved parents waiting any longer. The darkness closes over her, ready to take her home again.

* * *

She thinks she can hear their voices, or is she just imagining it? Marian cannot tell. But she's lying on her front, the sword gone from her belly. No pain, either. Just the hard, cold surface on which she lies. Without opening her eyes, she tests her limits by taking a deep breath. Her lungs feel strong again. How long has she been out for? She cannot begin to imagine. She keeps her eyes closed, but not through a conscious decision. To push the limits of her current capabilities, she rolls over on to her back and lets out a long sigh of a breath she didn't realise she had been holding.

"Who's there?" A voice calls out from a distance. Heavily accented, she cannot place it.

In a panic, she snaps awake. Immediately, she can see she is wearing the same clothes, but her surroundings are completely different. The vast expanse of golden desert sands have given way to a small, squat dwelling of stone blocks. Beyond the empty, doorless, entrance, she see a bleak, colourless landscape that stretches beside a vast river. A low mist obscures her view, but the occasional river bird darts into sight as it lands, wading among the dreary mudflats.

She looks all around her, climbing unsteadily to her feet. The room she is in smells of dust. Brick dust. There is no furniture. No windows, just the vacant doorway.

"Hello?" she calls back to whoever called first. "Robin?" It's a desperate hope that he is here, too. He would never have left her side if he was.

The other person remains stubbornly out of sight. "I said, who are you? Who sent you?"

That's a pertinent question, she thinks. Where is she? Why is she there? She steps into the doorway and finds herself looking out over the drab landscape. There isn't a tree to be seen for miles, so at least she can rule out Nottingham. Turning left, she can see another dwelling, the same as the one she is in. No glass in the windows – just like the peasant dwellings in Nottingham. But these are made of brick, and bricks cost a small fortune. Whoever owns these dwellings must be wealthy; just not wealthy enough to afford glass. It struck her as strange.

Nevertheless, it's clear that the other person must be calling from the second, smaller dwelling. She descends a small flight of steps, also made of some sort of stone, and out into the over-grown grass and foliage. The distance between the two huts is mercifully short. The second is in much larger than the one she woke up in. Longer, but still single storey. She climbs up another flight of steps, and finds herself in a dark, cramped room with just a crate in one corner with a small device on top. Beside the crate in the corner is a pile of fabric, a clothing item of some sort.

"Hello-"

She tries to call again but within a second, a hand is clamped over her mouth, drowning out the rest of her sentence. The man's arms are strong, like iron, holding her fast in place as she tries to struggle. His hand is positioned so that her jaw is clamped shut and cannot even bite her way free. She lashes out with her legs, muffled, throaty screams reaching no one.

"Who are you? Who sent you? You're Five, aren't you?"

How she is supposed to answer this volley of questions with his hand over her mouth, she does not know. Her assailant pushes her against the wall, into a corner and bears his weight down on to her so she cannot fight her way free. Whoever he is, he's a professional at restraint. He intensifies the pressure, giving her a shove.

"Answer me!"

She forces herself to be still, to get a look at him. He's huge. Towering over her. Broad faced, swept back fair hair and wearing clothes she has never seen the make of in her life. His teeth are even, but yellowing. Not unusual in the lower classes, even though they couldn't afford sugar and the such like.

"Please don't hurt me," she pleads, giving her head a shake for want of any other physical gesture she can make. "I don't know how I got here. I just woke up here."

The man leers at her, in some sort of amusement.

"You have to believe me, I don't know where I am or how I got here? I was with my friends, I got injured, badly. I thought I was going to die-"

"You're not hurt!" the man snaps back, his rather high voice growing suddenly furious. "Five sent you. No. Lucas sent you, didn't he? He couldn't face me again!" His anger dissipates, becomes almost playful as he thinks he's figured her out.

However, Marian protests her innocence. "I don't know anyone called Lucas," she insists.

Swiftly, he grabs her by the arms and twists her around in the blink of an eye, holding her fast he frog marches her to the empty doorway. In the distance, through the gloom, a tall man dressed in black emerges. Her captor holds her fast still, and she's too terrified to even call out for help.

"Here he comes," the man whispers low in her ear, pushing her closer to the edge of the concrete steps she had just walked up.

Marian keeps the man in her line of vision. He seems to falter in his step, as though he really wants to be walking in the opposite direction. He seems afraid. Jittery and nervy as he gets closer. And the closer he gets, the more alarmed she becomes.

"No," she says, trying to back away. "No, please, it can't be. This can't be happening-"

The blood in her veins has turned to ice; her stomach churning horribly but she cannot back away. The more she tries, the more he pushes her forward.

"You know him?" the man asks.

Marian twists her head around. "Please, you have to help me escape. He's come to finish me off."

"Drop it!" the man hisses in her ear. "Tell him, if he wants to know about a major terrorist attack on British soil, he will come to me alone and talk face to face. No Spooks; no hangers on; no trackers."

With that, he pushes her violently down the stone steps. She screams aloud in pain as her knees and elbows connect with the hard steps. She almost bounces down them like a discarded ball. She comes to a rest at the bottom of the steps just as she's pulled back under a deep, dark tide.

* * *

Lucas hears the scream. It jolts him out of his tortured reverie with the force of the electric volts Oleg Desharvin once applied to his very own bollocks. His reaction is swift, his keen eyes penetrate the thin river mist that drifts across the mudflats just as Desharvin vanishes behind the old birdwatching shelter. He curses under his breath and chases after him. He hasn't come all this way, wrestling with the demons of his past as he went, to be thwarted now. Whatever Desharvin wants cannot wait, not even for the girl he just so casually tossed down those steps.

But Desharvin has gone, and the girl's motionless body lies like a broken rag doll at the bottom of the steps. His conscience wins out, and the girl needs his attention more. Desharvin will find him again, of that Lucas is sure.

Fresh cuts and bruises scatter like livid flower petals along her arms, exposed through the rips in her rather odd-looking white dress suit. Her hair, brown and tangled, lies haphazardly over her shoulders. Her breathing, however, is steady. Manoeuvring her into the recovery position, giving her a gentle nudge, soon brings her stirring gently back into life.

"Hello?" he says, careful not to alarm her. "Hello, can you hear me?"

A soft moan escapes the girls parted lips and her eyelids flutter open, revealing cornflower blue irises. Somewhere deep inside, a memory is stirred, but he cannot dwell on that now. She awakens fully, brings a hand to an open cut above her left eye and winces in pain.

"He be no Gentleman, sir," she whispers, screwing her eyes shut. Then, she stops. Opening her eyes again, her expression then freezes into something akin to unadulterated fear as she turns her gaze to meet his. "Guy..." she whispers, inching away from him painfully. "How did you get here? Where have you brought me?"

Lucas frowns, tries to smile. "I won't hurt you. Tell me your name-"

"You know my name, Guy!" she snaps.

Confused, he holds his hand out in a conciliatory hand. "Look, I don't think I am who you think I am. You're hurt, and you need help. Come with me to the car, I have someone with me who can help you."

She's on her feet, bleed seeping quickly into her white frock. She's in a state, and about to bolt. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so he grabs a hold of her and swings her up over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Desharvin spoke to her, and he needs to know what he said. She's an asset now, whether she likes it or not. "Come on, love," he says, marching her away and trying to ignore her kicking legs and grunts of discomfort. "Let's get you back to safety."


	2. Culture Shock

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot to me, so thank you! The usual disclaimers apply, I own none of this. Kudos/BBC own Spooks and Tiger Aspect/BBC own Robin Hood. Thanks again for reading, and please review if you have a minute.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Culture Shock**

Everything happened so fast that Marian had no time to react. From waking up in the hut, to being seized by one strange man and thrown done the steps to being abducted by a second strange man who is a dead ringer for Guy of Gisborne. Had she been in her right mind, on her own sure turf, she would have fought back long ago. However, she has reached her limits. Her face is pressed into the small of not-Sir-Guy's back, her arse high over his shoulder and he's got her by the legs, holding her fast, marching her away to God knows where. She has never been so humiliated in her life.

"Just let me down now, please," she says, giving up her struggle.

The man stops, but for a moment doesn't say anything. He's thinking about it, though. All she can see is the uneven scrub land and the back of this man's legs. Nothing to indicate where she is, but if she can get him on side, he may be more co-operative. "Please," she adds, "hanging upside down like this is making me feel faint."

That does it. She feels a tug on her legs, the world up-ends itself once more and her position is swiftly righted. A rush of blood leaves her head, making her sway on her feet and the man reaches out, steadying her gently. She looks up at him, hands on his chest to steady herself, the same position as when Guy stabbed her in Palestine, they meet each other's eyes. She studies him for a minute: Guy's colouring, his eyes, nose, mouth, height. Thinner than Guy. Different hair, different clothes. She's never seen them before.

"If you're not Guy, then who are you?" she asks, still peering at him intently. She is making him uncomfortable, as though this man is not accustomed to scrutiny. "Is your name Lucas?" she adds the question, remembering the name her first assailant mentioned.

At that moment, a fine drizzle begins the seep from the leaden skies. It mists the man's hair with tiny droplets, hanging from his long eyelashes. He looks up, as though searching for an off switch and turning back to her. "Into the shelter," he says, taking off towards the larger of the two concrete dwellings.

He doesn't look back, her hesitation goes unnoticed, so Marian just follows. "Wait!" she calls after him, "I asked you a question. Are you Lucas? That man asked me to give you a message."

The man stops suddenly, glancing back over his shoulder towards her. She took that as a 'yes', but she cannot help but wonder why he's being so cagey. She remembers Guy, the way he followed her everywhere. Once, she had described him as being like a 'lovesick spaniel'. He showered her with expensive gifts, broke the coffers to buy her affection. Now, here is his double, looking right through her without so much as a trace of recognition behind those same sapphire eyes.

Ignoring the pain from the array of cuts and bruises that now scatter her limbs, she begins to limp after him, following him into the hut. Once inside, the man looks at the object placed on the crate in the corner. He picks it up, studies it closely, tapping on its surface before sliding it into the pocket of his jacket. Without explaining his actions to her, he turns and helps her to sit down on the wooden box.

"Lucas North," he says, once she is settled, extending a hand to her as if she were a man.

She frowns against this insult, but decides to shake anyway. "Marian Knighton," she says, introducing herself in return. "This may sound an odd question, Mister North, but where is this place?"

"The Thames Estuary," he answers, giving her an understandably odd look as he lowers himself to the floor at the side of her crate. "Are you in pain still? Do you think you could manage a walk to the car? It's not far."

"K-ah?" Marian repeats the unusual word, but gives up on its meaning. "So, am I in London?"

The corner of his mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile. "Yes, you're in London. Were you expecting to be somewhere else?"

What was she expecting? She thought Guy had killed her. She remembers every small detail. The pain in her stomach, she thought he had punched her. Then, she recalls looking downwards, seeing the sword thrust through her. Tears mist her vision as she recalls the look on Robin's face as he knelt beside her in the desert sands. She died, she knows she died.

"Yes," she replies to Lucas, but not seeing him any more. "I thought, maybe, Nottingham." She cannot tell the truth; not that she is supposed to be dead. When she looks back at Lucas, she can see he's already forming judgements about her sanity. "I was injured, I remember nothing before waking up here, in that other hut," she points the way, out of the empty doorway.

However, when he speaks again, he is perfectly understanding. "I can get help for you. There's a Hospital near by," he informs her. "But, Marian, I need you to remember what that man said to you."

"His accent was hard for me to understand," she replies, frowning to try and recall exactly what he had said to her. "He said, are you five? I am two and twenty, though; so I don't know why he thought I was five."

Lucas suppresses another grin, disguising a laugh as a cough. It makes her nerves twang in irritation. She is trying to help, but this man mocks her. As though he has sensed her annoyance, however, he quickly pulls himself together.

"No, he thought you were MI5, not that you were literally five years old," he explains, as though she should have guessed all along. "But look, it's not safe for you now, Marian. He thinks you're MI5 and he will come after you again. I can get you medical help and somewhere safe to stay until this business is dealt with. Don't be afraid."

Don't be afraid? How can she be anything but? Helpless, alone and confused, she turns her gaze to the doorway again to hide the tears that slide down her cheeks. Outside, the drab landscape stretches out into the thick river mist that obscures what lies beyond just a few feet. Loose stones form an embankment, mud flats provide ample wading ground for river birds with long, thin, twig-like legs. From over head, a low rumbling noise penetrates the silence. Thunder is her first thought. But the sound goes on, getting louder and louder, and closer, directly overhead. In a panic she jumps to her feet looking all about her. The sky is weighted with thick, grey clouds, so nothing is visible. But the roar gets louder still, nearby but above and all around her. Panic rises like bile in her throat.

"What is that?" she calls out in fear, looking for somewhere to take cover. "Dear merciful God, what is that noise?"

Lucas, she notices amidst her panic, doesn't even seem to notice the noise. He's looking at her through a fog of bewildered confusion. "It's just a jet," he says, getting up and guiding her back to her seat. "This is a flight path to Heathrow. Don't panic!"

She tries to struggle against him again, but he wraps his arms around her as he guides her back to her makeshift seat. Just as she thinks she can no longer take the fear, the noise passes, recedes into the distance, leaving a heavy, swelling silence in its wake. Her heartbeat slows again, the danger obviously has passed. Her mouth is dry, she tries to swallow but the knot of fear has formed a lump in her throat.

"What could possibly make such a noise?" she asks again, trembling all over.

He kneels beside her, pointing out of the empty window towards the cloudy sky. "Look out there," he instructs, "follow my direction. See up there, a jet plane. That's all it was; it was just hidden by the clouds before. It's landing at the airport now."

Then she sees it. A huge flying machine with great, stiff wings. It's in mid-air, slowly descending at an angle. Marian is speechless; unable to tear her eyes away from the jet plane as it makes its descent to earth. Her mind swirls, her head spinning as she takes it in. She doesn't realise, but her mouth is hanging open as Lucas begins leading her away from the hut again. He's muttering under his breath about medical help and, still utterly stupefied, she offers no resistance at all despite the pain and stiffness in her legs.

* * *

Lucas is careful as he leads her away, holding her hand as though he were guiding a bewildered, senile parent out of a dangerous situation. Whether Marian hit her head on the concrete steps as she fell, or whether some terrible misfortune befell her before he arrived, he cannot tell. But amnesia seemed to be an issue, along with the cuts and bruises that were causing physical discomfort. He soothed and cajoled her as they went, silently praying that no more planes came in to land as they went.

Luckily for him, the walk back to the car was not long and Ros was still perched on the bonnet as he approached. He gave her a wave with his free hand, warning her of his, and their new friend's, approach. Ros looked from Lucas to Marian and back again, single brow raised sceptically.

"I don't think that's Desharvin," she points out, giving Marian a once over and seemingly decided her threat level was low.

Lucas gives a shake of his head. "Desharvin had her," he replies, jerking his head towards Marian. "He gave her a message and then shoved her down those concrete steps. Could have killed her. "

Ros's expression softens considerably and stands up straight to assist Marian into the back of the car. Lucas notes the look of renewed incomprehension on Marian's face as she allows herself to be guided in the vehicle. "This is a carriage?" she asks, looking from Lucas to Ros. "Does it fly?"

Ros whirls around to face Lucas. "Okay, what's going on?"

Lucas shrugs, gives her what he hopes is an apologetic look. "Like I said, he threw her down those steps. Must've hit her head. But he thinks she's with us, and he told her something. I must know what it is."

Ros rolled her eyes. "Well, I'd rather you got it from her than him, Lucas," she says, turning back to Marian and helping her with the seatbelt. "It doesn't fly, but it'll get you to a Hospital in no time. I'm Ros, by the way, and this is Lucas. What's your name?"

"Marian," she replies, pulling at her seat belt as though to see what it does.

Ros cups her chin, making her look back. "Marian, what year is it? Who is the Prime Minister?"

The young girl's face crumples in confusion, shakes her head. "Prime Minister?" she repeats. "There is King Richard, but he is on Crusade."

Lucas buries his face in his hands before he can clock the look on Ros's face as she looks over her shoulder at him. "Let's just get Marian to the Hospital, shall we."

The journey passed off with whispered conversations between he and Ros, with intermittent glances in the rear-view mirror that had been discreetly trained on their passenger. She looks as white as a ghost as the car rolls into life and, with every car that passes in the opposite direction, she yelps and flinches as though she thought they were about to collide. Her fear is genuine, completely unfeigned. She squirms in her seat, craning to look out of the locked windows, watching as the passing cars vanish from view.

"You don't think she's going to puke, do you?" Lucas asks from the tail of his mouth. "She's truly bricking it back there."

"God I hope not," Ros whispers back, keeping her eye fixed on the road ahead. "Even if she does remember what Desharvin said, how reliable do you think she'll be? Poor girl is confused, injured."

"I've got to try, Ros. You know that."

Ros responds by pressing down on the car's accelerator, bringing a whimper of fear from Marian.

"Make the carriage stop, please," she pleads, sobs distorting the words as she buries her face in her hands.

Ros, perhaps still suffering the effects of the loss of Jo, is uncharacteristically understanding. "It's all right, Marian, we're almost there. We'll have you right in no time."

Lucas breathes a sigh of relief as they pull into the Hospital car park. "Go back to the Grid and brief Harry for me," he says to Ros as he gets out. "I've got a mobile I found in the old birdwatching huts and I might be able to get hold of Desharvin on it. But I want to stay with Marian for now, make sure she gets the help she needs."

Ros nods, keeps the engine running as Lucas helps a visibly trembling Marian out of the back. A struggle against the tangled seatbelt causes a minute's delay, but soon enough she's on her feet again. Still struck dumb, still gaping all around her. As soon as she's standing independently, she turns around slowly, taking it all in. Lucas watches her quizzically; it really is as if she's seeing it all for the first time and she cannot articulate the things she is seeing. He takes a step back, still watching her. The feeling of having met her before rears up in his mind, but he cannot place it. Guy is not an alias he has ever used before, not even before he was captured. Even so, she would have been a young teen back then – he would not recognise her as he does now.

She turns a full circle, taking in the numerous cars and stops when she faces him once again. Her expression is plaintive, broken with confusion and loss. "What's happening to me?" she asks, reaching out for him. "Please, help me. I just want to go home."

Lucas takes her hand again, but is at a loss for how to comfort her. "It's going to be all right," he finally replies, but never have words tripping off his tongue sounded more empty and devalued.

* * *

Marian is ashamed of herself. She is brave; has always been brave. She had charged into battle alongside trained fighting men. She had brought food and provisions to the poor in defiance of a tyrant. She had always been able to hold her own. However, that was before. This strange new world of flying machines, horseless carriages that seemingly run on thin air, and now doors that slide open all by themselves that led into huge, glass fronted buildings with glittering interiors had thrown her back to a whimpering childhood of fears.

The man at her side – this Lucas North – is currently holding a small device to his ear and talking to it. He calls it "Sarah" and apologises for having to cancel their dinner at the Bistro. But, with his free arm, he is guiding her through this vast building he called a "Hospital". Inside, it is lit with fireless lights set in the ceiling. There are numerous fireless lights in this building. People swarming about, several of whom are also talking to little devices held to their ears, just like Lucas did.

The more she looks, however, she sees things she recognises. One man plays with a set of keys, jangling them like the old jailer at Nottingham Castle used to. The seats are recognisably seats, but made from a substance other than upholstered wood. There is a large timepiece on the wall, just different from the ones she had at home. It tells her it is four hours and a half past noon. Her attention is caught by a large, glass fronted machine that contains several rows of brightly lit objects and packets. The people insert coins into a slot she cannot see, then tap buttons on the front, which then seems to affect the packets inside. One will drop out and the person must reach into a hole at the bottom to retrieve whatever it is. There is a similar machine next to it, which fills little cups with fluids once the coins have been inserted. The whole process fascinates her more than anything else. Mostly because it seems harmless, in a world where everything else strikes the fear of God into her.

Lucas gives her shoulder a squeeze. "I'll get you something as soon as you're checked in."

Jolted out of her observations, she sees they're standing at a long desk behind which a woman dressed in a white tunic, tight fitting, is tapping at a board with lettered buttons on it. But, she is staring at a box with a screen on it. Letters and words magically appear as she taps the buttons.

"Hello there, Sir. How can I help?" she asks Lucas.

Marian is relieved. She wouldn't know what to say.

"Hi, I found this lady down by the estuary and I think she's got a head injury. She remembers nothing. Is very confused."

The woman looks at Marian in maddening sympathy.

"Take a seat, Sir. The triage nurse will call you shortly."

Marian lets it all wash over, now. She physically cannot take it all in and simply lets Lucas lead her to the machines she had watched earlier. He inserts coins into the machine she can see through first, and prompts her to pick something. She doesn't even know what she's looking at. But each item is marked with a letter and a number. There are corresponding buttons.

"Do I press the same buttons on the pad to get the item I want?" she asks.

"Yes."

Inside, she is turning cartwheels. She has figured out her first challenge. She can also see that these are edible snacks, and until now, she didn't realise how hungry she is. She could murder some bread and cheese, but she doesn't know what's inside the packets. Perhaps, in this new place, they wrap up their bread and cheese or pies in these bright wrappers. She selects something long, thin and wrapped in purple, watching with ill suppressed delight as a metal coil moves back and it drops down to the hole at the bottom. Meanwhile, Lucas has been at the fluid dispenser and filled two cups with a steaming liquid. He selects a shiny pink back with the word "Walkers" emblazoned across the front from the food machine, and leads her back to the seats.

"Thank you, Mister North," she says, struggling with the wrapper until she figures she can tear it from the perforated tip.

Inside, is a disgusting looking brown chunk. Long and thin, she knows what it looks like, but these people cannot possibly be eating that!

"Am I supposed to eat this?" she asks, looking up at Lucas beside her. Just like Guy, he towers over her even when sat down.

Her confusion is still amusing to him. "Just try it," he prompts her, watching her reaction carefully as she nibbles at a tiny corner. "It's chocolate. You can't possibly have forgotten that, too."

It's delicious. Emboldened, she bites off a great chunk and relishes the feeling of it melting in her mouth. She has never tasted anything like it. Too much and it would be sickly, but for a snack it was perfect. "I love this!" she says, peeling back the wrapper for more. However, she didn't like the look of what he was having. Pale, misshapen discs that crunched noisily when he bit down on them.

Finally, she has a small breakthrough. Whether it was the snack and the pleasant, brown liquid that Lucas calls "tea", or just that she had had a moment to stop and take stock, but she is relaxing now. She can think a little more clearly and digest the days events.

"That man, the one who was looking for you," she says, looking back up at Lucas. "He told me to tell you that there is an attack coming. Major attack. He used another word, but I cannot remember it. Just that he needs to talk to you alone. Did he think I was spying for you?"

"I think so, too," he replies. "He thinks you're MI5, and we're spies. He'll come after you again, so I'm staying with you until this is over. Then I can take you home, okay?"

She nods, but Marian feels anything but certain.

"Did he tell you anything about the attack? Did he name any organisation?"

"Nothing," she replies. "Just that there is a major attack coming and you must speak face to face. He said no trackers and no spooks."

The odd phraseology comes back to her suddenly. All these things she didn't get a chance to contemplate before being shoved down the steps and knocking herself out. She smiles. "But what can he do? He's just one man!"

Lucas does not share her dismissive attitude, however. She can see his face creasing into a frown as he stuffs the empty packet into his pocket and lifts his tea. "It's not him," he clarifies. "He has information from his colleagues at the FSB. I need that information to stop the attack being carried out. Lives depend on it."

He pauses for a moment, looks at her thoughtfully. "Look, when we take you to the Office for questioning, you'll have to sign a document: the official secrets act."

"Questioning?" she asks, brow raised. "What sort of questioning?"

He smiles. "My Boss will just want to hear what you have to say about Desharvin, that's all. He won't hurt you or anything."

She tries to feel reassured about that, but doesn't quite manage it. Its' the sort of thing the Sheriff might say, a euphemism for something far worse than it sounds. But, she says no more. Instead, she looks around the brightly lit room. Every time she takes a fresh look, something else catches her eye. Something she had not seen before, such as the big screen fixed to the wall which had moving pictures of talking people inside it.

At her side, Lucas looks careworn and weary. If he had not, she would be bombarded him with questions and queries, demanding answers for every small thing she saw. But the mention of Desharvin's name has had such a peculiar effect on him. His eyes are fixed on the middle distance, like he's not really there any more, but his mind has wandered off to some place else. Occasionally, he will flinch, quite unaware of what he is doing.

"Lucas," she says. "Who is this man? Why is he so dangerous?"

He jerks around to look at her, but his reply is cut off by another woman in white calling her name above the din of the waiting room. Unless she is mistaken, he looks relieved and, whether that's because their wait is over, or it spares him the necessity of an answer, she cannot tell.


	3. Amnesiacs

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I own nothing. Thanks again, and reviews would be welcome!

* * *

**Chapter Three: Amnesiacs **

"**But don't look back in anger, at least not today." (Oasis, Don't Look Back In Anger. 1995)**

Marian awakens to darkness. The window to her right has a breath taking and inexplicable view. Little yellow orbs of light sparkle in the darkness, forming a spider's web pattern of gold that shines all through the night. Some buildings, taller and grander than she could ever have imagined, are lit up in whites, silvers, reds and blues to show them off to their full advantage. If she looks down, there are beacons on corners that flash red, orange and green in a sequence she finds endlessly fascinating. She could watch these lights forever; lose herself in the interlocking, incandescent streams of light that stretch out into infinity.

At her left hand side, is the rest of the place Lucas had called a "Hospital". She had already guessed that this is a place for the sick and injured. She had heard of such buildings being used in the Holy Lands, but they were places were the wounded went to die. Here, healing was all around her. She had been wired up to a machine the Nurse had called an "IV Line", and a special solution was being gradually routed directly into her body via narrow pipe barely thicker than a strand of her own hair. Dehydration. She knows what it is, and the nurse had told her she was incapacitated badly by it. Then, they injected a clear fluid into her arm that, moments later, washed away every small sting in her body and left her feeling numb and sleepy.

There are other people there. The curtains are drawn around the beds, but she can hear the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping patients. She is grateful that her bed is at the end of the ward, otherwise, she would miss out on the view. Robin would be amazed by it, if only she could show him. How would he react? She couldn't begin to imagine. Sometimes, in Nottingham, they would look at the stars up in the sky, forever out of their reach. Here, it seems, the stars have fallen to earth.

She wishes Robin were there with her. The memory of him tugs at her heart strings, a physical sting that not even the nurse's magic injections can numb. But Robin is not there, nor any of the others. Even Lucas has gone; to where, she knows not. On the upside, she has space to breathe, to take stock of what has happened. But now she has that time and space, she realises fully just how inexplicable it all really is. She turns on her side, lets her eyes lose focus and the spiders web becomes a golden haze in the distance and tries to lose herself once more.

The silent, soft-footed intruder creeps up from behind. A hand slides over her mouth; she tries to struggle but the other person's superior strength soon pushes her down again.

"Ssh!" a man lulls her quietly into silence. "I'm not going to hurt you, not if you promise to do as I say."

She recognises the man's voice, the heavy accent she cannot place. But there's no mistaking that it's him, Oleg Desharvin. He only has his hand clamped over her mouth, she can nod her head freely. Right now, she will agree to anything to make him go away and leave her alone. God alone what sort of a society allowed dangerous men to prey on lone women in their beds – never mind how prettily lit up it is.

"I want you to go back to Thames House as soon as you can," he explains, whispering low. "Tell Lucas North he is to call me on the clean phone I left at the Estuary. I have information, big information, but there's a price. Tell him, two million in mixed currencies and a UK Passport. Tell him, he cannot run from me; I will find him as I found you. I always find what I'm looking for."

The hand slips cautiously from her mouth, she goes to look but he's already gone.

* * *

As soon as he steps onto the Grid, Lucas can feel the kid gloved hands wrapping metaphorically around his throat. Stifling him with kindness; laying out the soft furnishing in case he should fall. Everyone stops what they're doing, eyeing him with maddening sympathy as if he's going to breakdown any minute. Even Ros holds back from him, her expression softer, not at all her usual self as she greets him. He pauses just inside the pods and looks back at them for a minute, unsure what to say or do. There's no way of proving to them that he can handle Desharvin, not right there at that moment.

To his relief, one person there has not welcomed him with that look. In fact, she's barely looked up from her own computer screen. She keeps her eyes trained squarely on the monitor, frowning slightly as she takes the barest of intel and extrapolates, with alarming degrees of accuracy, what the enemies of the nation are plotting next. He had heard Ruth's name several times, been briefly introduced to her when she reappeared on the Grid following her Lady Lazarus-esque resurrection from the dead. Now that he is acquainted with her, he can fully appreciate why Harry had missed her so much.

He makes straight for her, ignoring the occasional sidelong glances of his colleagues and draws up a seat right beside her.

"Morning Ruth," he grins a winning grin.

Evidently, she is lost in her own little world. She didn't notice his lumbering presence in her vicinity; she didn't even notice his drawing up the chair. The sound of his voice, however, makes her almost jump out of her skin.

"Oh!" she yelps, accidentally knocking her mouse off the table. "Lucas, you scared me half to death!"

Her hair is already tied back in a neat ponytail, but she runs her finger behind her ear as though a stray lock had fallen, all the same. He wonders if she's always been this nervous, or whether it's only because she's been officially dead for the last two years.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, briefly dropping his gaze. "But, I haven't officially welcomed you back on to the Grid yet."

The corners of her mouth twitch into a semi-smile, her head tilts knowingly. She sighs deeply. "No," she replies. "But go on; what have you got for me?"

He's quick to try and set her at ease. "It should be easy, trust me."

She stifles a laugh. "You can only begin to imagine how many times I've heard those words, Lucas."

Yes, all of Section D have been there. Those easy, simple cases that involve saving the nation at the drop of hat, decoding ancient cypher written by semi-literate Cantonese potato farmers and translated back into Latin and English by chimpanzees. It was always simple at the explanation stage. Lucas feels himself blushing, but he holds his hands up in a placatory manner.

"No, really, I do think this is easy," he protests, making her giggle for real. Only days after the death of their colleague, Jo Portman, however, he is happy that at least his myriad of problems has put a real smile on someone's face.

Ruth composes herself. "It's all right, Lucas. Out with it."

He puts his grin back in place. "A background check," he says. "Marian Knighton, twenty-two years old and from Nottingham. That's all the information I have on her."

Ruth looks pleasantly surprised. "Oh, so it really is simple," she remarks, already turning back to her computer. "Wait there and I'll do it right now."

The process takes only minutes. Ruth clicks away with a rapidity that makes her hand a blur; windows flash up on the screen; passwords entered and asterisks bursting across the screen at lightning speed. He cannot keep up, even if he were inclined to.

"You don't have an exact date of birth, do you?" she asks, still looking at the screen.

"No," he replies, disappointed that he didn't even ask. "But she definitely said twenty-two; so that makes 1988?"

Ruth taps at the keyboard, eliciting more information from the mystical wonderland called the world wide web (MI5 Intranet at least). It narrows down the big list of names and numbers, but still nothing that Lucas can decipher himself. He looks over at Ruth's face, she's frowning as if something's not right.

"Spell her name for me," she asks. "I must be inputting incorrectly."

He spells it out exactly as he recalled seeing it on her Hospital notes. M-A-R-I-A-N K-N-I-G-H-T-O-N. Ruth's fingers fly across the keys as he goes, then her frown deepens further.

"Nottingham, you said?"

He nods. "Yes."

Ruth scrolls through the list on the screen. Occasionally, she clicks, pulls up an image only for Lucas to dismiss it as not the correct Marian Knighton. There are only four, anyway. All of them much older than his Marian and one of them not even living in Nottingham. Another was marked "deceased" as of 1983. Their list is exhausted and Ruth logs herself out of the national database. Turning back to Lucas, her expression is apologetic.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Either your lady friend has given you false information, or she's managed to avoid being put on our system – meaning she's never filled out a form in her life, not even a birth certificate. There's just nothing."

Lucas's heart sinks, dismay showing in his grim set eyes. Marian has lied to him, or her injury means she's forgotten her real name. He recalls bringing her to the Hospital, her journey in the car and her fear of airplanes. Then there's the undercurrent feelings, unbidden and unwelcome, of him being drawn to her. The mystery of who she is pulls him in and, underneath the disappointment and frustration, there's a longing to know more. Just as he is about to get up and leave, a hand waves before his face.

"Earth to Lucas!" Ruth gently chimes.

He gives a start, completely unaware that she had been talking to him while he pondered the deep mysteries of Marian Knighton.

"Sorry … Miles away."

"I can see that," she gently chides, but good natured. Then, her face and tone turn serious. "I was just saying, what I can do is check back further and see if the name crops up anywhere else. If it's an alias, it may be significant, may hold clues as to her true identity."

Lucas's spirits lift. "I would really appreciate that, Ruth. Thank you."

They bid each other farewell, but just as he goes to leave, she speaks to him again.

"I was going to say, be careful, Lucas. About the other thing, too. Just, be careful."

He turns to look at her, but she's already digging back into her work. He knows she was referring to the Desharvin case and, for a fleeting moment, he wants to hug her. She makes no fuss; she takes no pity on him. Just a simple "be careful" and back to work. If only the others could show such faith in him.

* * *

God alone knows how she managed it, but Marian did doze off again after Desharvin's late night call. She was awoken in the morning and given a bowl full of yellow, paper like flakes soaked in milk and a spoon to eat it with. They didn't seem to have any small ale and, instead, she was presented with a mug of steaming liquid called 'tea'. Like a lot of the food in her new world, it didn't look like much, but it tasted very nice.

Now that the sun has risen, her light show has ended. But now she can see fully the things she was really looking at. Vast towering buildings of stone, networks of black roads dissecting every inch of land. Fast moving vehicles sped along, obeying their own rules. It is a harsh, bleak and ugly sight by day; so much so, she wonders if she dreamt the orbs of light all along.

"Would you like a shower?"

Marian turns from the window to see a new nurse standing there, hands on hips at the foot of her bed.

"Oh no," she replies. "I wouldn't want showers on a nice sunny day like this."

The nurse frowns, picks up the clipboard from where it is hooked on her bedframe and squints at it. When she's done, her smile is back in place as if everything is right with the world, after all.

"No, dear," she speaks much more gently. "I mean, would you like me to take you into our bathroom showers. Do you remember how they work?" A pause, seeing the look in her eyes. "Never mind, I'll show you how it's done."

The shower, for Marian, turns out to be the best thing yet. Water in Nottingham is dirty, fetched from a well and heated over vast boilers in the kitchens before being lugged up to the private chambers. By the time it got there, it was always tepid, at best. Worse still was the river. The people used the river to wash their clothes, empty their latrine buckets and to irrigate their land. It certainly wasn't fit for bathing or drinking.

But the shower is a jet of hot, clean water, safe even to drink should it accidentally get in her mouth. Soaps are scented and frothy – not the melted and re-solidified pig fat they used in her time. She almost wants to taste the apple scented shampoo she has been given and told to use on her hair. She had also been given a "conditioner" to use afterward. A rich, creamy textured substance that makes her hair feel soft even when wet.

Despite wanting to spend the rest of the day under the luxurious waters of the shower, the nurse is starting to panic at the length of time she's taken and is calling through the locked door. She dries herself off on the softest towels she's ever touched and, on the way out, concealed some of the soaps and bathing products under it. When she goes home, they're coming with her.

The shower alone has worked magic on her; she feels positive, buoyant again after a day or more spent in frantic confusion. She dresses in a fresh Hospital gown and steps back onto the ward with a little more confidence. She had almost forgotten her problems, but there's a stark reminder sitting on the end of her bed when she gets back. She almost calls him Guy, again.

"Lucas," she greets him, trying to sound casual.

He looks up at her, his brow furrowed and his bright blue eyes clouded. So reminiscent of Guy; so like him in appearance that it sends a chill of terror down her spine. The last time she had looked into his eyes was when he had a sword in her belly; he was watching her die, barely conscious of what he had done. She has to stop herself from recoiling as she looks at Lucas, with that exact same expression on his face.

"Hey," he says, getting to his feet so she can get back into bed.

The ward is not busy, so there's not much noise. Breakfast has already been served and the patients destined for the next level of treatment have already been taken away. Even their beds have gone, leaving the ward almost empty. Just one patient, a very elderly lady, remains and she is fast asleep again. Nevertheless, Marian stands close to Lucas and whispers in his ear.

"That man came back. Desharvin," she informs him.

Lucas's body stiffens; he turns to face her with a deep frown furrowing his dark brow. "What did he say to you? How did he even get in here?"

"I don't know," she replies. "He crept up on me and gave me a message, but I can barely recall, Lucas. I am so sorry."

"Try," he implores her, sitting her down on the edge of the bed.

She racks her brain, trying to get the wording right. "He said again that there is a big attack coming to England, but if you want precise details there is a price. He said he wants two million in mixed currencies, but he didn't say what it is he wants two million of. Could be pennies; could be groats or shillings-"

"Pounds, Marian," he corrects her gently. "It's been a while since groats and shillings were used."

Her mouth drops open. "That's extortionate!" she gasps. "You could buy the whole country for that kind of money. Surely you can negotiate with him. He said you can contact him on a clean …" her words trail off as she forgets the name of the device.

"Phone?" he suggests, ignoring her inflated ideas of what a mere two million pounds will get you.

"That's it!" she replies. "He also said he wants a you kay passport. But Lucas, I don't think you should give that to him, he'll try to run away with it and not tell you about the attack that's coming. He could be gone within weeks and you'll never see him again."

He smirks a Guy smirk that sends another chill down her spine.

"He could be gone within hours, never mind weeks!"

He stops there, pulling himself short and relaxes. "Sorry, I don't mean to snap. You've done brilliantly to remember all this, especially in your current condition. But listen, you're going to be discharged today. They can't fully treat you, you'll need to see a Specialist but they need your bed now. Don't worry, we'll keep you safe and Desharvin will not bother you again."

Several hours later and they're ready to leave. Marian has no possessions, only the white dress she was wearing in the Holy Lands. She caught the date on her Hospital notes, the year is 2010. She's been wearing this dress for the best part of one thousand years. The worst part is she cannot tell anyone; they would fear her running mad, never mind suffering acute memory loss. She thinks of her friends; they will all be dead in this world. Their bones will be sunk deep in the earth, lost to her forever. Robin, Djaq, Will, Little John. Even the Sheriff and Guy of Gisbourne. They're all dead now, no matter what their plots and plans were.

She looks up at Lucas as he assists her into his car. Guy of Gisbourne, alive and well and his name is Lucas. Is there another Robin, living under another name, in another place? Hope flares deep in her chest. He must be, surely. Another, uneasy thought strikes home, is there another version of her? Hope flattens: the resemblance stops at the physical, if Lucas is anything to go by. Even if there is another Robin in this world, he will be a different person. Her Robin is still dead, nothing will alter that fact.

* * *

**Note on Marian's confusion about a "UK" Passport:** The United Kingdom of England, Scotland and Wales was not established until 1603, well over four centuries after Marian's own timeframe. So, naturally, she doesn't know what the UK is. She would, however, know what a passport is. Also, in Marian's lifetime, England and Scotland were separate countries with separate Kings and constantly at war with each other. This comes into play later in the story.


	4. Familiarity

**Author's Note:** thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading; I hope everyone enjoys it and reviews would be appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Familiarity**

"_I took a walk with my fame down memory lane; I never did find my way back," (Oasis – "Hey Now". 1995)_

Past an old Cathedral, following the meandering Thames, through the City of London they crawl along in the afternoon traffic at a snail's pace. Marian rests her head against the car window, her eyes drifting over every exotic, breath taking and logic defying sight she sees. Some of it is beautiful; a giant building made almost entirely of glass, winks in the distance as it reflects a thousand suns. Lucas calls it "the gherkin" and stifles a laugh – how can he be so dismissive of something that is clearly a work of art? Others, however, are just big, functional concrete boxes.

They pass Smithfield, the site of the famous market where the witches and the heretics meet their agonising end in flames that send them to the eternal fires in the bowels of the earth. She squints to catch sight of the famous stake, but sees nothing but shoppers hurrying to and fro. More beautiful, glass fronted buildings and other places designed for people to eat in – judging by the activity inside. Then, her heart leaps into her throat as a vast edifice of a building looms into view.

"Lucas, look," she bursts out, pointing towards the tallest of the towers. "The Tower of London, look, I've seen it before."

Lucas almost slammed on the brakes when she first cried out. Cursing under his breath, he steadies himself and rights the position of the car. "Well done, Marian," he sighs, casting a quick, angry glance in her direction.

It's a lot bigger and expansive than she had seen in the old woodcuts people had shown to her. But there's no mistaking the Conqueror's White Tower. Her father once told her that the Conqueror, known to the English as Billy the Bastard because of his illegitimate parentage, would watch from the windows of the White Tower as the Saxons were lined up and beheaded in the courtyard below.

"Lucas," she says, careful to measure her tone this time. "What do you do to traitors?"

"Depends on what they've done," he answers, still watching the traffic. "If they've hacked into our systems, we give them a job patching up our weak spots-"

"You mean you don't kill them?"

Lucas chokes. "What? No!" he retorts. "Of course not!"

"What if they try to kill the King?" she asks, pressing the point.

"We have a Queen, Marian. If anyone tries anything funny with her, they go to prison for a very long time. Maybe psychiatric assessment – they're usually nuts."

Marian is sceptical. "Is that because she's only a woman?" she asks. "Anyway, doesn't she have male advisors? What if someone tried something with them? Or her male heirs? Or –" she breaks off, watching his reaction with increasing irritation. "What's so funny?" she demands.

But Lucas is laughing too much. He pulls over into an emergency parking space, taking a minute to recover his composure.

"I'm sorry, Marian," he chokes between stifled laughs.

"You mock me," she says, hurt. "Forgive me if I do not know your ways and customs, Lucas. But even the things I see that are familiar to me turn out to be completely different, when I get up close. I ask for clarification and just get vague answers. People think I have lost my wits, lost my memory or think I am an idiot who cannot tell a goose from a capon. None of that is true and I am struggling to learn these new things. You laughing at me is not helping and what's worse is that, despite everything, I am trying to help you. Did I not recall the message Desharvin gave to me? I didn't even understand it, but…" her words break, the tears she willed not to fall begin to leak from the corner of her eye despite her best efforts to keep herself in check. "I am lost; I am lonely; I want to find my way back home. That is all."

Lucas isn't laughing any more. He's turned fully in his seat, his back to the door, too see her properly. He opens the glove compartment and hands a packet of paper tissues to her. Realising, before it's too late, that she doesn't know what they're for, he takes one out himself.

"Please don't cry," he says, "dry your eyes. I'm sorry that I laughed at you and, most of all, I am so sorry that you have become caught up in all this mess through no fault of your own. But, you must also understand that what you're telling us is, well, impossible."

She takes the tissue as a fresh wave of tears rears up inside her, brought on by the truth of Lucas's words. She already knows it's impossible. Up until only a few days ago, she would have reacted exactly as Lucas and the nurses had reacted. She would have made the same assumptions and, in her heart of hearts, she knew she might even have laughed once or twice at their old fashioned ways. Coupled with her acceptance of the stark truth is her frustration at being utterly unable to prove anything – she just sounds like a mad woman, and there's nothing she can do about it.

"I don't normally cry," she says, still through a veil of tears that she dabs at with her tissue. "Honestly, I don't!" she laughs. He laughs, too. Good naturedly, though; he is encouraging her.

"You are brave, Marian, I can see that," he states. "But anyway, let me clear a few things up for you. We haven't chopped anyone's head off for over three hundred years. We haven't disembowelled, racked, stretched, diced, amputated, hanged, drawn, quartered, dismembered, eviscerated or done, generally, nasty and grotesque things to our fellow man in a very long time. Nor will we do so ever again. And yes, women are allowed to do stuff all by their pretty little selves – just ask Ros when we next see her!" he explains, grinning. "See, now you're laughing!"

And so she is. "We weren't that bad!"

Lucas raises a single brow of scepticism. "Really? Not what I heard," he replies. "Anyway, I sort of lied. Hanging was only abolished in the 1960s. But we have no death penalty at all anymore."

This factoid impresses her. "Good," she replies. "I was always against it. It's barbaric."

He re-starts the engine, resuming the crawl through the traffic, inching closer to Thames House. "Well now, what else has changed since the reign of… who was it, again? The Lionheart, wasn't it?"

"King Richard, yes," she confirms.

Lucas sighs. "So, what's changed in nine hundred years?" he ponders the question out loud.

"Go on, Lucas. Nine-hundred years in a nut shell. I challenge you," she grins, realising the full impossibility of the task.

He grins back. "Everything. I win."

Marian is scandalised. "That's not a real answer, you cheat!"

But she is laughing. They're both laughing, now. Her tears dry, the tension and fear drains away at last. Rays of happiness pierce her all-consuming homesickness.

"Well, okay then. We have much better medicine and health care, as you've already seen. That's why we have such an ageing population. I believe people died very young back then," he explains. "Infant mortality is very rare."

Marian had noticed. She had seen people so advanced in age that, in her world, they would be regarded as ancients. Here, there were multitudes of them and barely anyone seemed to notice. She had noticed, also, that there were many women. Women with several children, presumably their own, well into their forties and possibly fifties. Most of the women in her world were dead by thirty, all through childbirth.

"My mother died from childbed fever, a few days after I was born," she explains. "I don't think that is so common here."

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother," he replies, very serious again. "But it's now unheard of for a woman to die in childbirth, or as a result of it. There's less developed nations where it still happens. But generally, no. And, of course, there's birth control, so women don't have to have babies at all, unless they want to."

Marian looks out of the window again and imagines all the expectant women in England today; planning their future, instead of their funeral. In a nearby park, there are women playing with their older children or nursing their infants on the benches; safe in the knowledge that they have a lifetime together. It's the most beautiful thing she's seen since she arrived.

* * *

It's late in the afternoon by the time they reach Thames House. Marian looks up at the building, seeing how it towers high above her and gasps.

"Lucas, is this your house?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

He fights the urge to laugh again. "No, Marian, it's not literally a house. It's where I work," he replies. "Spend enough bloody time here, though," he adds in an undertone.

Marian turns back to the impressive building, watching as doors open of their own accord whenever someone approaches. And someone does. She's the same height as Marian, with blonde hair in loose curls down to her shoulders. Blue eyes and a lot of make-up on, more than women in Marian's day wore. They had to make do with red stains for their lips and cheeks. They make eye-contact as the woman appears through the doors, she frowns briefly at Marian but greets Lucas warmly.

"Hey, honey," she trills, loud and in an accent that sets her teeth on edge. Marian can barely make out a word. "You cheatin' on me, already?"

Marian turns on her heel in time to see Lucas and the newcomer greet each other with a kiss. He whispers something in the woman's ear, something she cannot make out, but she guessed that that was intentional. However, the woman casts another look at her, as though she is the subject of their whispering. It sets her on edge again.

Lucas looks up at Marian, a forced smile on his face. "Marian, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Sarah."

The woman turns, too, a fake smile on those deeply stained lips revealing a row of perfect, white teeth. "Hey, Marian. Lucas mentioned you, already."

She's being irrational in taking an instant dislike to Sarah, and she knows it. But Sarah carries with her an air of fakery; it's something intangible; something in her mannerisms that scream 'double standards', and Marian cannot shake her misgivings off.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sarah," replies Marian, taking a step closer so they're all standing in a triangle on the pavement outside Thames House. She is about to add that Lucas had already talked about her – simply because it seems the right thing to say, but he hadn't. He hadn't mentioned anyone special in his life at all, and that struck her as odd, too.

"Look," says Lucas, "I'll see you back at the flat, later. I'm in the middle of something, here."

Marian notes that this meeting was clearly not supposed to have happened, at least as far as Lucas is concerned. He wants to end it quick, but Sarah is reluctant. She doesn't react, instead she keeps her steely eye on Marian for a long moment, weighing up the competition. It gets to a point where Marian feels deeply uncomfortable. The silence weighs heavily on them all, and Sarah eventually gets the message. She stands on tiptoes to give Lucas a peck on the cheek, before striding off down the street.

They both watch her disappear into the crowds but, when Marian looks back at Lucas, he's still miles away, watching the spot where she disappeared. She reaches out, touches his arm gently to bring him back around. His expression dark; the darkest she had seen in him. Guy of Gisbourne dark. He whispers something under his breath, something about Sarah's behaviour, or that she was not supposed to be in this place. She wants to ask, but Lucas is not Guy. She doesn't have a key to Lucas's private life, as she did with Guy. In a moment of stark honesty, however, she admits to herself that she was shocked to find Lucas had a girlfriend and wouldn't be sniffing around her morning, noon and night – as Guy had done. It almost feels odd and, she surmises, could even explain the instant dislike she took to Sarah. Inwardly, Marian chides herself. She's no right to feel that way, and inwardly, she promises to be kinder to Sarah if ever they meet again. She can't help her reptilian, cold eyes. Or her silly voice.

"She's an American," he explains, finally coming back to his senses. "A new country for you, I bet."

That's the odd accent explained. "No more new things, please!" she groans. "Especially not whole new countries."

Marian follows Lucas inside Thames House, trotting to keep up with him as he strides through the corridors. They step inside something called an elevator, and Marian feels a strange tug in her belly as the machine lifts them up to a much higher floor. Once out of the lift, they walk down another corridor and come to a halt before some strange looking doors.

He looks at her with a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "This," he says, nodding towards the chambers on the opposite side of the door. "Is The Grid, our Head Quarters. Everything you see in here is top secret. You'll be asked to sign a document called the Official Secrets Act. Got that?"

A flutter of nerves in her belly, but she agrees all the same. "I'm ready," she replies, much more assuredly than she feels.

The doors rotate to admit them to a wide, open space dominated by all sorts of machines and devices; large screens, small screens and medium screens. All lit up, all vivid and moving pictures, sound coming from all around. Like a horse dropping blinkers over its own head, she blanks the lot and focuses on following Lucas as he crosses "The Grid". He waves and greets his colleagues, only one of whom – Ros – she recognises.

Ros and Lucas don't stop to chat, however. He keeps on going until he reaches a glass fronted partition, a separate room with the Grid. Through the window, she can see a man with thinning hair. Plump, rather than over-weight and dressed very smartly. He's holding a device in his hands and shouting very loudly. He's drawing knowing glances from his colleagues, who all hide their smirks behind their hands.

"The Home Sec, I guess," says one as she passes Lucas. "Better get Ruth in there to calm him down."

The woman doesn't wait for a reply to this missive, and goes on her way. Lucas, however, leans in close to Marian and whispers in her ear: "Harry is our Boss. He hates politicians with a passion. Don't worry, though. He won't hurt you. If Ruth's around, even the Politicians are safe."

Lucas is making a valiant attempt to assuage her nerves. However, as she watches Harry continue his diatribe, he bears a striking resemblance to the Sheriff of Nottingham. Just the memory of that man was enough to make her want to scream in anger and fear. But, in stark contrast to the Sheriff, the man slams down the device he was shouting at, and beckons them inside calmly. He sees Lucas, his anger drains away and is replaced with almost fatherly concern.

"Come in, both of you," he says, gesturing to the seats in front of his desk. But, they both remain standing.

"Harry, this is the young woman I told you about, Marian Knighton. She was assaulted by Desharvin and then he tracked her down in Hospital, left another message about the attack," Lucas explains.

Harry turns to her, but his face is a mask. "Did he try to hurt you again?" he asks her.

"No, Sir," she replies. "He told me that he wanted two million in mixed currencies and a UK passport. He said that he can only give specifics of the attack planned in England if Lucas agrees to meet with him in private."

"I've already contacted Desharvin," Lucas interjects, drawing Harry's attention away from Marian. "We're meeting tomorrow, and I'm going to try and get the targets out of him then."

She can tell by the look on Harry's face that he doesn't like this one bit.

"Lucas, Desharvin is dangerous," he intones. His gaze darts to Marian and, yet again, she gets the feeling that more talking will be done as soon as she is out of earshot. A quick glance at Lucas shows he's as sheepish as a schoolboy. Harry continues in a deep undertone. "You, more than anyone of us, knows what he is capable of. Be extremely careful, Lucas, or you're off the Op."

"Harry," Lucas say, imploringly. "I'm the one he trusts. Let me handle this, and I will get us what we need."

Harry sighs, sags in defeat. She thinks he's going to protest further, but instead he turns to her. "I understand you've sustained certain injuries, Marian. Our Analyst, Ruth, is going to help you and Lucas will arrange a safe house for you to stay in until this is over. You'll be guarded around the clock, don't be afraid."

"Oh, I'm not scared," she replies with much more confidence than she feels. "I want this man caught and the attack to be prevented as much as anyone. I'll do everything I can to help you, and sign your … what is it again, Lucas?"

"Official Secrets Act," he jogs her memory.

"Yeah, that."

Harry smiles, clearly impressed with her determination. "Excellent," he concludes the brief meeting. "Lucas, introduce Marian to Ruth and the debriefing can begin."

She sees how wrong her first impressions of Harry were. He's nothing like the Sheriff. He clearly cares for Lucas in ways which the Sheriff couldn't have given two figs for Guy; or anyone else for that matter. So, she reasons, she has it wrong about Sarah, too. She smiles as she bids Harry Pearce, or rather Sir Harry Pearce as the plaque on the door informs her, as she leaves. Lucas, however, has quiet and taciturn again. There's a lot more to his relationship with Desharvin than she knows, she realises that. Curiosity burns at her; a longing to know what hold this man has over Lucas. Whatever it is that Desharvin is capable of, this thing that Lucas knows more than anyone, it's eating him up. Gone is the kind Lucas who tried to help explain the modern world to her, and here is the haunted, hounded Lucas.

They arrive at an empty desk, a note stuck to a blank, dark screen reads: "back in one hour" with the time noted as 3.30 pm. Lucas checks his watch. "Ten minutes," he says, "sit down and wait."

He falls silent as she sits and becomes lost in the activity happening all around her. Whatever it is that's eating Lucas North will have to wait, for now.


	5. The Smiling Girl

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, I own none of this. Please review if you have a moment.

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Smiling Girl**

**"To die to sleep,**

**To sleep perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub,**

**For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come."**

**(William Shakespeare, Hamlet. Act 1: Scene 3)**

He's tumbling through his dreams again. Fists pummel the pillow, missing his own sleeping face by mere inches, as he's dragged deeper into the horrors of his own history. Scenes and memories play out in his sleep; water drip, drip, dripping down the walls. A bare electric bulb flickers overhead as the sinister crackle of the electrodes flare into life with the promise of fresh torments to come. Oleg Desharvin smiles as the volts course through his prisoner, one Lucas North esquire. His prone body convulsing with the current, screaming bloody murder at the bare, tiled walls. Screaming, even though no one can hear him. Screaming, even when the shock ends because he knows it's coming again – and the anticipation is the worst. It's knowing what's around the next corner that really eats at your soul.

The visions shut off, darkness falls with ease. But it's not over; these demons are toying with him and these few precious moments of silence are shattered by the screams of others. Distant wailing as some other poor sap gets the same treatment he just got. He screams with them; because he knows what's happening and as they live it, he re-lives it afresh. The hilarious thing is, he knows these are not real: it is a tape recording made – being played back – to put the fear of God into him. Or, is it? One can never be too sure, and that's just the way the Russians like it. The torment never stops. They ravage your body first, then fuck with your head just to drive the message home.

A curl of a twisted bed sheet closes around his neck, the lights flare back into life; a harsh neon glow. The noose tightens. The acrid smell of the disinfectant, used to wash his blood off the tiles, cuts through him like a knife. But, it'll be over soon. He'll step off that chair and it will all be over. He turns his gaze upwards, to where the light fitting supports the means to his end. Just one more step; kick away that chair and everything stops. No more pain; no more torture. No more waiting in the dark for people who've forgotten you ever existed.

The cell door opens, footsteps rush in. Of course, they were watching and waiting for him to reach this point. They want to be the ones to pick him up again. It's one more way in which they want to fuck with his head. They break your legs, then give you a crutch to walk. Arms close around his waist, strong and burly. The same arms that will soon be pinning him to the ground, beating him senseless.

"Guy," says the girl's voice. "Guy, it's me? Don't you remember me, Guy? It's me; it's Marian."

She's looking up at him with her arms wrapped around his waist, with his neck still in the noose. How did she get there? Where did she come from? Her eyes are wide, bright blue in the fluorescent lights and brimming with tears of anguish. Her lip trembles as she goes to speak again. "Guy," she pleads. "It's me. It's Marian. You told me you love me; then you destroyed me. You must remember that?"

He awakens, screaming into the darkness of his bedroom, heart pumping violently against his ribcage. Luckily, he is alone – Sarah having been already fobbed off, as per Ros's orders. The muffled sound of his mobile ringing from inside his jacket pocket, the noise that dragged him out of his sleep, continues as he gropes to answer.

"Lucas North," he states, panting and breathless.

A moment of silence follows.

"Come and meet me," says Desharvin. "Bring me what I asked for; no tails, no trackers."

He doesn't give Lucas time to reply; he just hangs up, leaving him in a torment of silence. He lets his hand fall back to the bed, and stares at the blank screen of the phone. He knows he will comply; he knows he wants to see Desharvin again. He is compelled to by forces beyond his reckoning and as though the weight of it is all too much, he sinks back into his bed. Back into his turbulent semi-consciousness, from where he will await the first rays of dawn.

* * *

Marian awakens with a start, too. Jolted out of her dreams by the branches of a tree whipping against the bedroom window, their branches scratching at the glass in the high wind. She breathes slowly, calming herself gradually as she lies back down again. Robin was in her dream. So was Sherwood. She was in the branches of a tree, whistling to him as he searched for her in the clearing where their camp was located. She recalls the sun slanting through the canopy of trees, the way it caught the green of his eyes as he turned to look at her. They were happy, then. The happiest they had ever been, as she slid down from her perch and straight into his arms.

"I love you, Robin Hood," she had told him as he leaned in to kiss her.

He made her a promise. "We'll be together soon."

But they're not together. Marian dabs at a stray tear that leaks from her eye and sits back up again. It's still dark outside, but there's a thin sliver of dawn on the horizon; a new day shivering into existence. She doesn't have long. She doesn't have anything like long enough to carry out her brief idea. To just go back to Nottingham and hope for the best. But, how will she get there? What will she find even if she does make it that far? More of this concrete wilderness.

Her bright idea is dismissed at conception. Instead, she gets up and wraps a gown around her shoulders. The day before, there had been no time to talk. Instead, she had been allocated a safe house and taken to buy essentials, courtesy of the tax-payer (something that rankled her conscience). She leaves the bedroom and enters the kitchen across the hallway. Ruth, a kind lady, had set out instructions for her on how to use a toaster and a kettle. Normally, water would be boiled in a great vat, taking hours. But the small kettle boils in minutes, just as the toasted bread pops out of the toasting device. Inside a refrigerator, she has butter and jam to put on her toast – another novelty.

Marian has to admit to herself, that the marvels of this world ease the yearning for her old world. Once back in the small living room – rather like a Solar in her old world – she switches on the device Ruth had called a "television". It snaps into life at the thrilling touch of a button on the "remote control". She could never have imagined anything like this, back in old Nottingham. A screen that plays an unbroken, ceaseless flow of scenes and images as though the people were actually alive, inside the device. Impossible, of course, and Ruth had assured her that the people inside could not see her, sitting there in her night things and chomping on jammy toast.

The television shows things her people would have called "Mummers Plays". Travelling troupes of actors who roamed the country, putting on plays for the entertainment of others in return for a few coins and a hearth for the night. They acted out the old poems, like Beowulf, or the Arthurian Legends and scenes from the Bible. That was as close as her people got to a Television. But, as she recalls, the news flashes on television are real, reporting real events from across the world as they happen, keeping everyone informed.

The Newsreader on the screen straightens the papers in front of her, before addressing her audience directly. Marian still feels like hiding, like she's being spoken to directly.

"Yesterday evening a bomb explosion tore through the city of Tel Aviv, killing fifteen men, women and children. Our Middle East correspondent, Kate Audley, is at the scene of the explosion and brings us a report that contains graphic images."

The picture changes, showing a place exactly like the Holy Lands. Marian puts down her toast for a moment, leaning in closer to the news report that now shows images of mangled machinery, bent, twisted metal with broken bodies strewn among the debris. Another woman, the aforementioned Kate Audley, speaks to the audience.

"The Suicide Bomber approached this check point just outside Tel Aviv and detonated shortly after 4pm, the local rush hour. A Hammas leader, speaking from inside the West Bank, claimed the attack was in retaliation for unprovoked Israeli air-strikes on Palestinian civilians…"

The pictures change again, showing great machines propelling exploding devices through the air, raining them down on a city Marian could only assume was the unfortunate "West Bank". It is the Holy Lands, though, it was called Palestine even in her day. The Crusade? It cannot possibly be that, not after eight centuries and more. The sadness overwhelms her and she turns away, finishing her breakfast in the kitchen before she goes to get dressed.

New clothes, bought before she was taken to this safe house. Jeans, made from denim. They're a lot more comfortable than Marian had been expecting, but she still felt as if she was dressing up as a man. Then the bra, a garment worn in place of a stomacher, but much smaller. She pulls her new T-shirt on over the top, and finishes her new ensemble off with a casual, zip up top. She fumbles with the zip, tries to get the two sides slotted in, then gives up in exasperation. But, once she has her trainers on, she feels more at home. None of the women in this time wore full length kirtles, petticoats and skirts. In fact, very few seemed to wear skirts at all. She wonders, for a moment, if the men here all wear dresses, but decides she doesn't really want the answer to that.

Once she's checked herself in the full length mirror on her wardrobe door, making sure she looks the same as other women, she combs her hair and goes to brush her teeth. The strong, mint taste makes her eyes water, but her mouth feels clean and fresh. It's not like before, when all you could do was chew on fresh mint leaves and spit them out into a bucket, spending the rest of the day worrying about having bits of green mint stuck between your teeth.

By the time she arrives, Ruth has let herself in and is sitting on the sofa, watching the news. It takes a moment for her to realise that Marian is even standing there.

"Oh, hi there," she says, turning away from the news. "Let myself in; hope you don't mind. But, it's time we had that talk."

* * *

Ros rubs her eyes wearily. It's almost a sign of vulnerability. "I promised Harry I'd look after you, Lucas," she says, slouching against the wall of the Grid. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid and you'll wear your wire at all times."

Lucas hesitates as he recalls his early morning conversation with Oleg Desharvin. No tails; no trackers. He will know; he always knows. Nevertheless, Lucas finds himself nodding along. "Of course," he replies, almost robotically.

Ros fixes him with a steely, unwavering stare. Her jaw is set firm, not so much as a twitch mars her death rays this morning. "See that you do," she says, slipping the small device into the pocket of his jacket.

With no further ado, she pushes herself away from the wall and strides back to her station, ready to tune him in already. Lucas steals a look across to the other side of the Grid; Harry is ensconced in his Office, staring blankly at his computer screen. Ruth has not yet arrived. Ros has already dispensed of him and, sensing his escape, he tries to slip quietly away. Making it as far as the pods, until-

"Lucas!"

Harry's voice brings him to heel; he turns and sees the boss man still sitting, staring at the computer. Wondering if he only imagined the sound of Harry's voice, he almost turns away until Harry gestures with his index finger, beckoning him over as a teacher does an unruly pupil. It's enough to make him drag his feet across the Grid. Lucas doesn't bother to knock and Harry doesn't bother to chide him.

"You called?" asks Lucas, standing up straight and waiting impatiently for the lecture to begin. It'll be the same one he just endured from Ros and he lines up the same unthinking answers he trotted out for her.

After a minute, Lucas pulls himself up, realising something isn't quite right. Harry continues to look at the screen. His old, green eyes glisten with the threat of a tear as he continues to just stare at it. Lucas draws in a deep breath, dares to take the liberty of stealing a glimpse at the screen and feels his heart skip a beat.

Her hair is long, dirty blonde; the photo is an old one. Jo smiles excitedly out at him; wide and bright, toothsomeness on full show. She is brim-full of hope and promise, a whole new future opening up before her as she poses for her file photo. That Jo Portman had vanished, by the time Lucas arrived back on the Grid. Consumed, as she was, by the job; by the terrible fates that had befallen her colleagues; by her own traumatic raping at the hands of the Red Backs. In her place was a young woman struggling to retain some grip on her own humanity. A shadow of the smiling girl in the old photograph.

Above her picture, the word "DECEASED" stands stark against the black background. A pop-up window obscures the lower half of her body: "Are you sure you want to delete this file?" it's asking Harry. His finger is hovering, trembling over the right button of his mouse. Yes, he is sure. But that doesn't mean he wants to. That doesn't mean he can.

Lucas places a hand gently on Harry's shoulder, with the other, he gently extricates the mouse and he clicks the button himself. A green progress bar appears for just a few seconds, before the last traces of Agent Jo Portman are erased forever. A blank screen appears where the smiling girl once was, breaking the spell she seemed to cast on them both.

"Harry," Lucas says, his voice soft, unwilling to intrude on another man's grief.

Harry turns his head slowly, looking up at Lucas who towers over him when he's sat down like this. For a moment, he struggles for the right words to say. But finally, his Grammar School education pays off, but not before a final gulp. "Desharvin has you teetering on the brink, Lucas," he says, just as softly. "Don't let what happened to Jo happen to you, too. Don't let the past eat you alive."

Dum Spiro Spero. While I live, I hope. He pushes the dreams that fracture his nights to the back of his mind, but he knows he cannot push them out altogether. "If I don't do this, Harry, I'll never be free."

Harry looks away again. "Then do as you must."

Lecture not forthcoming, Lucas is dismissed as normal business resumes. He casts one final look at his Boss as he leaves, watches him hunch over the paperwork, alone with his private grief.

* * *

Marian arrives at Thames House just as Lucas is leaving. They almost collide, but he swerves past her with barely a glance of recognition in her direction. Even Ruth gets barely a nod from him as she retreats from the taxi window, having paid their fare. Marian stops, whirls around and watches as he is swallowed up by the early morning commuters who swell the streets. He doesn't look back at them as he goes. He barely looks at anyone.

Marian waits until Ruth joins her on the steps to Thames House. "Where's Lucas going?" she asks, still frowning at the spot where he vanished.

Ruth shrugs under her heavy rain coat. "To meet an Asset, I suppose. Or a dead drop. Or sneaking off to see his CIA girl behind Harry and Ros's backs." She smiles the smile of someone holding back information and nods towards the door.

Marian knows this subject is now closed and follows on from Ruth at a trot through the vast building. Up the stairs and along the corridor, through the sliding automatic doors and through the pods. Onto the bustle of the Grid, subdued at this hour of the morning. She thinks she should be used to it, but all the technology and all the sounds and sights have her in a whirl all over again.

Ruth waves to Harry as she passes, but even he looks out of sorts from yesterday. Over the other side, Ros listens intently to something, eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. She doesn't even look up as they enter. Tariq, the young techie, sees her, gives her a grin and a wave as she follows Ruth. She smiles back, glad of seeing at least one friendly face on the Grid.

Eventually, Marian finds herself back in an interview room nursing a cup of tea with Ruth sitting opposite her. A machine sits between them, a red light flashing on the front. Ruth talks to it in a clear voice: "Interview commencing at ten am."

Once she's told the machine the time, she looks at Marian from across the table. Her expression neutral, no sign of judgement in her eyes. Marian tries to take it as a good sign.

"You mentioned, to our Senior Case Officer – Lucas North – and our Head of Section – Rosalind Myers – that you arrived in this country from, I believe, the twelfth century. Can you confirm that for me?"

Just state the facts, she thinks to herself. "Yes. Yes, I can."

Ruth's expression doesn't change: no surprise, shock or disbelief.

"Do you have any proof?"

Marian's prior optimism dissipates. "No, I cannot prove it… Just-"

Just what? Even Marian doesn't know what she was going to say next, she just feels she needed to offer something – anything – other than a simple, negative no.

"You said you were in the Holy Lands?"

"Acre," replies Marian, pleased at finally being able to offer something precise. "I was badly hurt, thought likely to die, but I just came around here, in London."

Ruth's expression finally changes, like she's found common ground at last. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, Marian. But can you describe the injury? Was it a blow to the head?"

Marian sighs inwardly. This again. "No," she replies, adamantly. "I was run through with a sword. Sir Guy of Gisbourne was responsible for it."

Ruth jots down everything she says, something Marian only notices as she watches the Analyst's hand scrawl across the virgin page before her on the desk. "That's interesting," Ruth comments as she crosses her 'ts'. "Can you tell me more about him? The name sounds familiar."

"Well, there's not much to say," she replies, feeling raw at having to rake up the past again. "He was my betrothed, but I loved another. He found out and tried to kill me-"

"But what were you doing in the Holy Lands? Aren't you from Nottingham originally?"

"Yes, but the King was on Crusade; the third Crusade. Guy belonged to an organisation called the Black Knights who planned to assassinate the King. So, he travelled to Acre, forcing me to go with him, to carry out the deed," she explains, trying to keep it brief and digestible. "The man I loved, Ro-"

The door burst open, cutting off the rest of her sentence. A flicker of irritation crossed Ruth's face at the interruption, but she made no angry remark as she turned to find out what Ros wanted.

"It's Lucas," Ros says, between rasping breaths. "We've lost him; gone completely off coms. We need you on the Grid."

Marian looks from Ros back to Ruth, trying to gage what is going on. Ruth looks flustered, but she speaks evenly. "Sorry, Marian. Wait here until this is dealt with."

Marian, however, is unruffled. "He's not lost, I saw him not an hour ago on the way in. It was definitely him." She can recognise that man anywhere, unless there are two Guy of Gisbourne's in this world.

Ruth shakes her head. "No, it means we have lost contact with him while he's on an Op," she patiently explains. "He's in with Desharvin."

Ros clicks her tongue in irritation. "Ruth, there's no time for this. Harry is having kittens out there."

Marian makes no further protest, no further delay. The door closes behind Ruth as she and Ros make a stampede for their stations. Alone, she is bewildered. Desharvin always made Lucas go distant and aloof, like he could cast a spell on him. She spotted it, but did not acknowledge it, as soon as she saw him that morning. Clearly, he is in danger now. She gets up and presses her ear to the door, but no sound – not even a peep – makes it through the heavy door. She sits back down again, heavily slouching across the table. Whatever is going on, she has no doubt it will take all day again.

"Do as you must," that was what Harry had told him. Still, Lucas's hand trembles as he fits the key in the lock; he's breaking every rule in the book. The smell of disinfectant, used to wash his blood off the tiles, drifts heavily on the air outside his flat, like residue of a woman's perfume after she's left the building. The sound of electricity, crackling and spitting into life jolt violently. The sounds; the smells of that place, haunting him. The door is already open and he knows Desharvin will be in there, waiting for him. Making himself at home, no doubt.

The door creaks on its hinges, revealing his barren, sterile flat. A building he's always hated. He steps inside, the smell of disinfectant clinging to the pores of his skin, and closes the door silently behind him. The other man is sitting at the breakfast bar, watching him like he's been waiting all day. Bile burns Lucas's throat, the bare, electric bulb flickers in his mind's eye; the ghosts scream in his head – taped, or real? No, just the ghouls in his head, this time.

"Oleg," he says, leaning against the heavy oak door before he passes out. "This better be good."

* * *

**Thank you for reading; if you have a minute, please review.**


	6. Safe as Houses

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. I have skipped over a lot of what we've seen in the show, but will summarise those omitted events in the plot and narrative. Usual disclaimers apply and, thank you again!

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**Chapter Six: Safe as Houses  
**

Lucas pauses at the pods, a moment to gather himself before he faces the undoubted wrath of Harry Pearce. The hasty ascent up the stairs to his floor has left him breathless, so he takes deep, steadying breaths as he tries to anticipate the rollicking he's let himself in for. It's a futile task; the only thing guaranteed about Harry's foul moods is that they will indeed be utterly foul. He takes a decisive step forwards. As the pods glide open to admit him, he feels like a slave entering the gladiatorial arena for the first, and final, time. Playing the part of the spectators, every person there suddenly stops to look at him as steps into their line of sight. Hurriedly, they return to whatever they were doing, hoping he hadn't noticed. However, Harry remains ominously out of sight; a lurking danger obscured from view.

He finds himself scanning the room, looking for Marian. Generally clueless about the world around her, hers is more than likely the last friendly face he will see before he surrenders himself to the Pearce fury. Even that small comfort is lost to him; she is nowhere in sight.

"Lucas! In here, now."

Harry's voice stops him dead. Another deep breath and a he marches purposefully into the Section Head's office. He leaves the door open, maybe the prospect of an audience will take the sting from Harry's tail.

"You took him to your flat!" Harry glares at him from across his desk. "You broke just about every protocol in the book."

Lucas, however, swiftly finds himself on the defensive. "It was the only way he knew he could trust me."

Harry leans back in his chair, but continues to glower at him. "You'll have to move-"

"I never liked the place, anyway," retorts Lucas, starting to pace angrily.

Harry leans forward again, visibly biting down his own anger. "You know what a psychologist would call this?"

He had no time for this. "No, I don't, but I'm sure it's in Latin," he snaps back. He had been nervous upon entering the Grid not two minutes ago. Now, he feels just as angry as his boss. Harry himself seems to realise it, too.

"They'd say you're suffering from a variation of Stockholm Syndrome; that you're still in love with your captor even though no longer captive," says Harry, tracking Lucas's progress as he continues to pace.

"Well, they'd be wrong!"

Harry's next words are cut off by the arrival of a video message to Lucas's phone. He bites back a curse; he could have sworn he had it on silent. He slides it back into his pocket and looks again at Harry. The interruption of the phone seems to have had a calming effect on both men – just a second in which they could both stop and take a deep breath. Suddenly deflated and exhausted, Lucas lets himself slump into a seat opposite the mahogany desk. "I got the name of the Sudanese prisoner Desharvin interrogated," he offers, to make up for his gross unprofessionalism. "Omar Saleem Al Halad."

Harry nods. "Ros is already on to it."

He had temporarily forgotten the phone call he made to Ros as soon as Desharvin had gone. "There's something else," he admits. "The meeting was interrupted by Sarah Caulfield."

Harry is jolted, flinching before recovering swiftly and betraying no more emotion. "Really?" he asks, inviting more information. It is understood between them, that Harry neither knows, nor not knows, about the relationship. It is merely unacknowledged.

"She came to bug my flat," he reveals, watching Harry's reaction carefully.

Nothing. Harry has simply filed this gem of information somewhere in his mental files. He knows; he will not forget; but he's giving nothing away. "She suspects you of being a double agent," he finally comments. More of an observation than a question.

Lucas arranges his own features into a blank canvass. "Seems that way," he replies. "Suspects you, as well."

Harry shrugs. "Naturally," he replies, utterly unfazed. "Leave that flat immediately. Take the young lady with you-"

"Young lady?" Lucas frowns.

He waves a hand in the direction of his glass fronted office. "Marian," he finally remembers her name. "She's staying in a safe house. You can go with her. Watch over the situation and get a roof over your head until you get a new flat of your own sorted."

It was expedient, he has to admit that. Nor does he mind. Understanding himself to be dismissed, Lucas gets to his feet but as he goes, he pauses by the door. "Harry," he says, looking over his shoulder. "Sarah mentioned a global conspiracy-"

"I'm on it," Harry cuts him off bluntly. "I heard you, so don't worry."

In other words, it's above his clearance level. Lucas isn't offended and Harry is no more a double agent than he is. He does trust the man. With a small smile that feels hollow, he goes out on to the Grid in search of Marian. First, they must go to his flat to pack what he needs. Then, to the safe house. It will all be very cosy.

* * *

Marian lost track of time a long ago. In fact, she leaned across the table in the interview room and fallen into an uneasy sleep. Not awoken properly until the door opened and Lucas himself loomed over her. She takes a moment to gather her wits, then remembers the reason for her abandonment in the first place.

She scowls up at him. "Everyone has been worried about you," she states.

Her scowl is matched by his. "We're leaving," he flatly replies. "Now."

He's already out the door, reminding her forcibly of the day Guy "rescued" her from the Earl of Winchester. She had resisted him then, in that life, and she thinks of resisting him in this life. But before she can even open her mouth, he's gone. Guy would never have willingly walked away from her, but Lucas barely seems to care. Instead of a stream of vitriolic protest, she trots after him, rushing to keep up with him.

As soon as they are out in the open, Lucas stops and glances down at his phone. Marian watches him closely.

"Is someone contacting you?" she asks, curious to see one in action again, now that Ruth has told her what they are and what they do.

Lucas shakes his head. "Video message," he states, rounding a corner into a quiet street. "Look," he says, tapping the screen with his finger and holding it in his palm, letting her see.

Initially, she is thrilled by the sight of the image taking over the small screen. Then, she stifles a gasp as Oleg Desharvin's face looms up close. "Lucas, it's him," she hisses. "It's Desharvin."

She feels his body stiffen beside her. He snatches the phone away as his girlfriend, Sarah, joins Desharvin on the screen, her mouth taped over and clearly being held hostage. She jerks her head up, watching Lucas's reaction carefully, grateful that the street they're in is empty. She can see the frantic panic in his eyes as he jabs at the screen again, before holding the phone to his hear. He paces back and forth across the width of the street, now oblivious to her presence.

"What have you done with her?"

She can only hear one side of the conversation.

"Let me talk with her," he demands.

Marian takes a step back, feeling as if she's intruding upon an intensely private moment. Although she wills herself invisible, her eyes cannot chose but to see.

"Sarah, I'm going to get you out of there," he says, sounding a little calmer. "Tell me where you are."

Another pause, but clearly the other phone is no longer being held to Sarah's ear as Lucas becomes angry again, kicking out at the hard, stone wall. "I can get you your money, but if you harm her, I will kill you."

For all the comfort of these cities, for all the technology; Marian couldn't help but marvel at how all hell seemed to break lose at the drop of a hat. The call ends, immediately, Lucas is making another call. He addresses Harry Pearce by name, informing him of the situation. He's still pacing like a caged animal. When the call ends, he pauses, rubbing his chin in agitation and when he finally looks back at her, it's as if he's only just realised she's there.

"What are you going to do? You can't let him hurt Sarah," she says. She may not have warmed to Sarah, but she would wish harm on no one.

"I won't," he replies, "But I've got to go back on the Grid. I'm calling you a taxi and it'll take you to my flat. Take these keys and let yourself in. Wait for me and answer the door to no one. If the phone rings, ignore it. I'll come back for you and we're moving to another safe house."

"What?" she retorts, confounded by the flood of information. "Why are you moving-"

"There's no time," he snaps, "just do as you're told."

This again. Do as you're told; ask no questions. But before she can even protest, Lucas has flagged down a large, black car with an orange light on the roof. Black letters spell out the word "taxi". He opens the back door and motions for her to get inside. She glowers at him as she does do. "I want an explanation," she whispers as she goes, by way of a parting shot. To her ire, he ignores her and slams the passenger door shut on the rest of her sentence. He leans into the driver's side and tells him an address; hands over some small paper notes: money.

"Number fourteen; flat two," he calls to her. "Go there and stay there."

Horrified, she presses her face to the glass of the window. "Lucas!" she calls. "You can't leave me here with this strange man!"

But already, the car is pulling away and Lucas soon fades to a dot on the pavement. Helplessly, she turns to face the front. A clear glass window separates her from the driver in front, but he speaks to her through a small slot.

"I've been called worse than that, love," he laughs, clearly unaware of how desperate and inappropriate this all is. "Don't worry, I'll get you home safe and sound."

Marian glares hard at the back of his head. What sort of a man wears a cap inside, anyway? "Be sure that you do, sir."

"You'll never guess who I 'ad in the back of my cab, just the other day," he rambles on, and she fails to listen. Instead, she watches from the window as the city rushes past.

There is so much that doesn't add up. How had Sarah become involved in this? Why did Lucas zone out on her whenever Desharvin's name cropped up? Who are these people and what are they doing? What exactly is "MI5"? Do they shift everyone around in 'safe houses' whenever they feel like it? She knows that Ros had left the Grid even before Lucas returned, to carry out some mission. It is linked to Desharvin, she knows that much. No one talks, but they expect her to follow their orders, all the same. Centuries may have passed, but in some respects, little has changed. She raises a half-smile, she thinks she should be grateful.

The taxi pulls up outside a row of houses. All brick, all very comfortable looking. She locates the right one with the help of the brass numbers on the doors.

"Your boyfriend paid already, sweet 'eart," the driver says, looking at her in the rear view mirror. "D'you want me to see you in?"

Marian is shocked at the very idea. "I most certainly do not," she retorts, climbing out of the car in an undignified stoop. "Now go away, pervert!"

She stalks away, without so much as a backward glance as the taxi driver made some angry remark. To her relief, however, the man drives away, his vehicle leaving a choking cloud of black smoke as it goes. Horses may be slower, but they are cleaner.

* * *

The home of Lucas North is a barren, empty place. Pipes are exposed along the walls, a green vine curtain – which would look pretty in a more generously apportioned residence – separates a sleeping chamber from the rest of the open room. But she can see inside – just an unmade bed and some garments strewn on the floor. A pair of lady's knickers kicked under a set of drawers. In the living room, the brickwork is exposed and bare. The kitchen small and pokey. She wrinkles her nose in distaste. In her day, that ugly brickwork would be obscured beneath beautiful, warming tapestries. Log fires would blaze in that empty, barren hearth and add warmth and homeliness. Upholstered furnishings would be set close to make conversation intimate and private. They had no pipes at all and what purpose did they serve, except to make spaces like this ugly. Small wonder Lucas is keen to leave.

As continues her appraisal of Lucas's living space – for it can hardly be called a 'home' – she notices some things amiss. A table has been turned over; some glass smashed on the bare floor. Does he really live like this? In a squalid shell of a house. At least, however, the man owns a book or two. She picks one off the shelf and takes a seat in a hard chair by the empty fire place. There's a potted plant, green leaves withering on the stalk, stood on the grate.

The book, written by one William Blake, contains poetry. It would do. Books, in her world, were expensive, valuable items. Handwritten by monks, on virgin vellum; one small mistake and they had to start all over again. Here, they are printed professionally, mass produced and sold much cheaper. The quality may have declined, but the wide availability of precious books can only be a cause for celebration.

The minutes bleed into hours, as she reads. Then, the sun begins to set; darkness spreading like a stain across the city. Blake's imagery captured her imagination, but after a number of hours she can feel her eyelids fixes herself a cup of tea to revive herself and, as the kettle boils, the door finally opens. Footsteps fall on the landing outside and relief washes over her.

"Lucas!" she calls out, "I thought you'd forgotten about me!"

She rushes out to meet him, then stops dead in her tracks, Lucas isn't there. Instead, a pale and shaken Sarah Caulfield looks back at her from the front door. The door closes quietly behind her.

"Sarah," says Marian, stepping closer, a frown darkening her features. "I thought Desharvin had you?"

She feels foolish, she saw the film on Lucas's film. Sarah looks back at her, still visibly shaken. "Is Lucas here?" she asks, her accent as annoying as ever. Marian inwardly chides herself. The other woman has been through a traumatic ordeal, and all she can do is rile against her terrible, whiny accent. But really, how can Lucas listen to her without wanting to pierce his own eardrums?

"No," she replies. "I haven't seen him for hours. I'm supposed to be helping him move out. Come in and I can make tea while you wait."

Sarah replies with a jerky nod of the head. "I'd like that, thank you."

Marian makes tea for them both, wondering if she should extend that to some toast. But, she doesn't know if Lucas has any bread. She leaves it at tea, and carries two steaming mugs into the 'lounge'. All the while, Sarah has been watching her; keen eyed as though trying to see through her very skin.

Once they're seated opposite each other, Sarah hunches up, clearly tense and on edge. "So, you're moving him on?" she asks, trying to sound casual. "I guess you must now Desharvin knows Lucas lives here."

So, that is it. Lucas brought Desharvin here, to his flat. Hence the strict instructions to admit no one. However, she thought that Sarah must surely be an exception to that rule. However, in front of Sarah, Marian is keen to make out that she knew all along.

"That's right," she replies in the affirmative. She picks her next words carefully, so Sarah will not find out that they will be sharing a safe house – she had no desire to deal with jealousy. "MI5 asked me to help him move to a new safe house. I agreed because Desharvin has already tried to get information out of me and I fended him off. Sir Pearce thinks he won't try again and trusted me with the task."

She couldn't resist telling Sarah that she, twelfth century Marian, had fended off a full grown man. Except that Sarah clearly has not been told of Marian's unusual predicament. Sarah, however, misses the gibe and continues asking questions.

"Don't you think it strange that Lucas is letting Desharvin into his flat?" she asks. "After everything he did to Lucas in Russia. It's like they're up to something."

Marian had no clue what Desharvin has done to Lucas in Russia, or anywhere else. But, once again, she's keen to appear in the know. She nods in agreement, saying nothing. She doesn't quite comprehend the shrewd look in which Sarah then regards her. "I was just talking to my Boss, before I came here," she says, her lip twitching into a quickly suppressed smirk as she spoke. "Walker and I, we're both very concerned about Lucas and Harry Pearce."

"Harry Pearce?" she asks, frowning. "Sir Harry – as well as Lucas – has been instrumental in the functioning of MI5 for a long time."

It's the best she can do. She will not appear ignorant in front of this woman. Not for all the tea in India. But, to say more than that is to risk slipping up and making herself look even more foolish than if she'd just been honest to begin with. However, Sarah is smiling and Marian feels the colour stealing into her cheeks.

"Oh, that's correct," replies Sarah. Marian is relieved. "But you watch them both carefully, Marian. They're not what they say they are. You'll see."

Marian leans forward in her seat, a frown marring her features as she sets her mug down by her feet. "Are they secretly working for Desharvin?" she asks. It cannot be, but why else would Lucas turn so peculiar whenever he is around? Is Sir Harry the same? She is in no position to know. However, like Desharvin himself, Sarah seems to be under the impression that Marian is also an employee of MI5. "Is that why Lucas gave him money and a passport?"

Sarah suddenly looks gratified. Marian knows she's just told her something she desperately wanted to know, but Lucas had not told her himself – for good reason. But, what if Lucas is up to something? Then she's acted wisely in telling Sarah. She doesn't know anymore, everything about this world is so strange.

"Switzerland is lovely at this time of year," Sarah remarks, apropos of nothing.

Marian is caught off guard by the question, but spared the trouble of answering as the door opens and Lucas stands on the threshold. His dark glower is directed at Sarah, who unfolds herself from her seat to embrace him.

"I just needed to see how you are," she explains, holding him close.

For a man who just risked losing her, he seems very cold towards her. Only slow does he return her affection, and close his arms around her waist.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

He raises his gaze over her shoulder as he mechanically nuzzles her hear. In fact, he's looking directly at Marian. "Stay," he says. Whether to Sarah, or to her, Marian cannot tell.

* * *

AN: In case there are any Americans reading this; your accents are lovely. But, that actress is English and her imitation accent was just blech! A weird mix of "Noo Yoik" and Southern Drawl, with something indecipherable thrown in for good measure. Us Brits are the first to complain when an American goes "English" (ref Kevin Costner playing Robin Hood). Sarah Caulfield makes us just about even!


	7. The Past Awake

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. A lot going on in this chapter, so apologies for the length of it! If you have a minute, reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Past Awake**

**Could thus have dared the grave to agitate,  
And claim, among the dead, this awful crown;**

**William Wordsworth ("A Gravestone")**

Marian awakens with a jolt, senses momentarily heightened and on full alert. Her small bedroom is dark, except for the pale streetlight filtering through her yellow curtains. Silent, except for the distant hum of a car passing along the road outside. The glowing numerals on her bedside clock tell her it's only three am and, by rights of her utter exhaustion, that she should still be fast asleep. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she listens out for the source of the noise that woke her. Voices? An intruder? Burglars don't wear dancing boots. Someone shouted, she was sure of it. Noisy neighbours returning late from the local taverns? More than likely. Reassured, she sinks back down into the welcoming mattress and straight back into a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes again, it's past nine am; late by her standards. She dresses in a hurry, still struggling with zips and shoe laces which leave her all fingers and thumbs. Once presentable, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she opens her bedroom door and pauses outside Lucas's bedroom, remembering the mysterious commotion that woke her in the early hours. Her thoughts fly to Desharvin; thinking he could easily gained access to the flat and taken Lucas in the night. She presses her ear to his door, listening for movement from within. When she hears his gentle snores, she breathes a sigh of relief and carries on her way.

The flat is open plan, with a living room moving seamlessly into the kitchen, which is small but perfectly functional. She puts on the radio, already tuned to her favourite music station and sets about making a light breakfast of tea and toast. The music fills the small kitchen as she works away. The radio. A small and simple device that has become her best friend since entering the 21st Century. The presenters are lone voices in the dark, keeping her company during even the quietest hours of the night, playing strange and beautiful music to her in the intimacy of her own home. Or, at least what has come to pass as her home. As she thinks this, she casts a dark glance at the ugly green, tumbling vine decoration that Lucas had insisted on bringing with him from his old flat. No home of hers would ever bear such a pointless thing. What this place really needs, in her mind, is a few nice tapestries to cover the expanses of bare wall. Or some family devices to hang above the fire place.

The kettle boils and the toast pops up from the toaster simultaneously. She makes the tea in a pot, leaving it to brew while she butters her toast. When she goes to take her place at the table, Lucas appears in the doorway, unkempt hair sticking up at the back, his jaw line heavy and dark with stubble. His eyes still half-closed, he almost stumbles into the door frame and shoots it a shocked glance as if to say, 'who put that there?' He's still dressed in his night things – a dark vest and blue tracksuit bottoms.

"Sorry Lucas," she says, "did I wake you?"

He flaps his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Tea," he finally says, drawing the word out so it becomes more of a plea than a statement.

Marian grins and fetches another mug from the cupboard. Outside, the sun has risen, making good the promise of a fine, spring day.

"Here you go," she says breezily, pouring him a cup first. His need, she guesses, is greater than hers. "Now wake up! It's lovely outside."

"No it isn't," he grumbles, kneading his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his palm. Once he's done with that, he lifts the mug and looks into its depths, lovingly breathing in the scent of the brew. "But it's starting to get better," he then adds.

She takes a dainty nibble of her toast while he gropes for a box of cereal in one of the cupboards. She thinks she should get up and help him, but she reasons that the exercise will wake him up and improve his early morning coordination – something that seems somewhat lacking in him at this hour.

"Lucas, did you hear anything last night?" she asks, once he's sat back down again.

He pauses in the middle of pouring the last of the milk on his cereal, thinking for a moment. "Er, no," he replies at length. "You did?"

"Yeah, at about three o'clock, I was woken up by it," she explains.

Lucas, however, is unconcerned. "Probably just cars. Or urban foxes," he replies with a shrug.

Leaving him to eat, she listens to the radio as the music gives way to a news broadcast. The news is better on the radio, too. You're not subjected to images of misery from around the world, you only have to listen to it. Not quite as a graphic. However, as always, the broadcast begins with the home news. Strangely, to her, there is no mention of Desharvin, or even any bomb plots. But, Lucas did tell her that everything MI5 did is top secret.

"The Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, is beleaguered after facing a rebellion from his own Labour Party backbenchers in the Commons…."

Poor old Prime Minister, she thinks. He would have been all right if he was living in her time – where no one got what where they were by having people vote for them. Then came a report on a man Marian has never heard of, working for an organisation she has only encountered in passing.

"Politicians and Ambassadors have, this morning, paid tribute to the Director of the CIA in London, Samuel Walker, who was found dead late last night…"

Across the table, Lucas frowns as he continues to eat, pausing briefly to top up his tea.

"It is believed that Walker committed suicide after Doctors informed him of an inoperable cancer…"

Poor man. Marian suppresses a shudder; not all illnesses can be cured in this time, then. She had seen people wasting away from mysterious cancers, lumps and bumps developing in various parts of the body and then the waste setting in. Small wonder, then, that Mr CIA opted to end his own life, on his own terms. So long as he doesn't mind spending eternity in Purgatory. She wonders, too, if the Church has that right.

"Do you think his soul is damned now?" she asks Lucas, for want of any better religious expert on hand.

He looks up at her startled. "Of course not!" he retorts, then hushes her into silence.

She glosses over his note of impatience and continues: "I think I want to pray-"

"Marian shush a minute," he urges her.

She sinks back in her seat and tears at some toast, pouting at being shushed like an unruly infant.

"The Home Secretary, Nicholas Blake, led the tributes to Walker, describing him as an honest and forward thinking man, who will be sadly missed by all who knew him…"

The report fades into another, more bad news on the home front. Joblessness on the rise again and everyone blaming the already "beleaguered" PM. Across the table, Lucas suffers a loss of appetite and takes to stabbing at his cereal with his spoon. After a minute, when the broadcast ends, he looks at her across the table. His eyes are piercingly blue, finally alert and awake at last.

"When I came home yesterday, how long had Sarah been there with you?" he asks, apropos of nothing – or so it seems to Marian.

She ponders it for a moment. "No more than an hour, probably less," she replies, still stung from being shushed.

Sensing her minor sulk, he grins. "Tell me, what did you two talk about?"

At that moment, the memory hits her like a bolt of lightning. Sarah had been trying to warn her off Lucas and Sir Harry Pearce, but she is reluctant to tell Lucas. She hesitates to answer.

"The usual things," she replies, evasively. "She wanted to know what I was doing there. So, I told her I was helping you to move into a new flat. I didn't tell her I was moving in as well; I thought it might upset her as you're as good as betrothed."

Lucas raises a sceptical brow. "I wouldn't quite go that far," he snorts, giving his now soggy cereal another poke with the spoon. "Did she say anything else?"

Marian shrugs. "Just that she was talking to her Boss at work. My guess is, she needed to explain her absence that afternoon, because of the Desharvin business."

She is revealing the truth by stages, so decides to take a step back. Lucas would think her stirring the pot if she revealed what Sarah had truly said and she is no home wrecker. Lucas, however, seems two steps ahead of her.

"Did she try and get information about Harry Pearce and me, at all?"

Colour steals into Marian's cheeks. "Not quite," she whispers into her tea cup. "She told me that you and Harry are not as you seem, and that I should watch you closely."

She braced herself for accusations of jealousy, or of trying to drive a wedge between Lucas and his girlfriend. However, Lucas is eerily calm.

"And will you?"

"Watch you closely?" she asks, seeking clarification. "I don't have much choice, Lucas. We live in a box together. As for Harry, how can I? I'm not exactly from round here."

Lucas suppresses a small laugh. "True enough."

They look at each other from across the table. "Lucas, what's going on now?"

His expression is marred by a frown, brow darkening. "Nicholas Walker was Sarah's boss," he says. "And he was perfectly healthy the last time I saw him."

Marian gasps. "The man on the radio?" she says, more of a statement than a question, and she picks up on his implications straight away. "She did say she had seen him, but it only takes a minute to end your life, Lucas. What if he hanged himself straight after she left? Or threw himself off a building – and he'd be spoiled for choice in London. They're all so tall!" Marian cannot quite believe she is defending the irritant, Sarah. But she would sooner death than accuse a person wrongly. "Anyway, why would she kill her Boss? She will need to find a new job now-"

Lucas cuts her off with a good natured laugh. "Marian, it doesn't work like that," he explains. "And there's all sorts of reasons. Now, none of my suspicions go past this door – not even to others in MI5. Understand?"

Marian nods. "Of course." She's kept more than a few secrets in her time. "But, what is CIA?"

"They're our counterparts in America," he answers her as simply as he can. "They work for the American Government in foreign countries; like we have MI6 working in foreign countries for the British Government. We spy on each other; it's all part of the diplomatic dance."

Marian's mind swirls as she takes it all in. "Lucas!" she finally exclaims. "Sarah is a foreign spy in your country! Does that not strike you as suspicious in itself? You're letting her into your life and she's working for another country!"

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Yes, mother, I know!" he retorts impatiently. "You know, you really do need to get to know Harry and Ros better. They'll love you." Behind his sarcastic humour, she can see genuine hurt behind his eyes. The way he casts his gaze down, the way he seems resigned to this unorthodox relationship that's doomed to failure. He continues in seriousness. "It is very unethical and I know I did the wrong thing with her," he says. "I thought of it as a honey trap, but I fell for her. I love her. And I don't even know why I'm confessing this to you." He tries to laugh it off, but fails.

Marian reaches out, placing one hand gently on his forearm. "A minute ago you were as good as accusing her of murder," she says. "Now you're saying you love her. But remember, she tried to get me to spy on you and Sir Harry. I hate to say it, but I think she's bad news. You deserve better."

Her final sentence startles him, he looks at her in shock. He goes to speak, but words seem to fail him. Raising a wan smile, he excuses himself from the table and rinses his dish at the sink. Despite his being granted a day off, it seems the Grid is a-calling after all.

* * *

As he expected, Harry looks troubled. He's leaning back in his chair, watching out of his office window as Lucas appears on the Grid. They make eye contact, a mutual understanding passing between them, that things have just gotten serious. They both already know why Lucas is there. Before Lucas can even knock, Harry simply orders him to close the door behind him.

"You heard about Walker, then?" asks Lucas, sitting down opposite Harry.

"I was on my way to meet him, Lucas," he answers. "We were going to discuss this global conspiracy; this group meeting in Basel. He was dead by the time I got there."

Alarmed, Lucas interjects with a question. "You found him?"

Harry gives a quick shake of his head. "No, a cleaner did. The place was crawling with police when I got there. But look, that cancer story is bollocks. We both know it."

The silence that falls, despite the gravity of their situation, is only a companionable one. Each man sinking into his own thoughts as they mull it over. Slowly, they're being led blind into a maze. They both know it; they both can do nothing about it. The clock above Harry's desk strikes twelve. As if by telepathic communication, Harry knows this without even turning to look. It is the afternoon. It is officially, socially acceptable to crack out the whiskey.

"It'll help us think," Harry offers by way of justification, all the same. The drinks cabinet is within easy reach of the Boss's office chair – he no longer even needs to get up off his arse for it.

Lucas grins mischievously. "Exactly," he concurs as he accepts a crystal glass of fine, amber liquid. "Thanks, Harry."

"Someone killed him for his knowledge of the organisation, that much we can safely deduce," Harry states, giving the contents of his glass a swirl. "I'm going to set Tariq and Ruth on this one. I want to know who it was, and I want that person to lead us to this organisation."

Lucas hesitates before he reveals what he knows. "Sarah was there. She came to the flat last night and told Marian she had been speaking to Walker. Do you think she might know something?"

He doesn't repeat his earlier allegations; Marian is right and there would have been plenty of time for Walker to either end his own life, or have it ended for him, after she left. Either way, Sarah will have information. Harry sips at the whiskey for a moment, before answering. "Keep her close, Lucas. Keep her very close."

In other words, keep sleeping with her in the hope of information. Lucas downs his shot of whiskey, washing away the other bitter taste in his mouth. Unaccustomed to strong drink at an early hour, he almost sways as he gets up. Harry grins, 'young people today!' he's thinking. Lightweights, the lot of them. Understanding himself to be dismissed, Lucas heads out across the Grid in search of lunch – something to soak up the alcohol.

The place is quiet. Abandoned computers glow in their stations, phones go straight to messages and only Ruth, Ruth alone, works steadily. She's squinting at her computer screen, cross referencing a stack of old files at her side; files she handles wearing white gloves. He frowns, suddenly curious, but decides against intruding. Any documents so hot they require gloves are bound to be way above and beyond his clearance level. However, as he reaches the pods, Ruth calls out to him, beckoning him over to her.

When he reaches her desk, he can see the documents in question are not politically sensitive; they're just ancient. As well as the gloves, she has a special flat slide for turning the pages of an ancient chronicle, to avoid the unnecessary risk of damaging the pages through human touch. Yellowing documents written on scrolls, some half burned away, others stained by the passing of centuries. But, looking carefully, he can still see the love and devotion that someone, somewhere deep in the mists of time, once lavished on creating this book. The handwritten text was in a fine calligraphy. The margins were not blank spaces, but alive with richly coloured vine-leaf decoration; small beasts and animals peep out from between the leaves. When it was first made, it would have been a work of art.

Ruth looks as if she's been buried in this ancient archive all morning, but has the glow of a woman in her own personal paradise.

"These," she says, waving one gloved hand over her papers, "have been, er, borrowed from the National Archives. This Chronicle –" she gestures to the tome Lucas is admiring – "was written by Henry of Huntingdon; whose father, another Henry of Huntingdon, Chronicled the Anarchy of King Stephen. Well, Henry junior took up where his father left off: the latter days of King Henry II and then, the reign of his son, Richard I."

Lucas's heart jumps as he scrabbles to pull over a chair. Ros's will do, seeing as she's left for lunch. He wheels it round to Ruth's side so he can see properly what she has been doing. Neither of them expect Marian's story to ring true, but he couldn't deny that delving so deep into the past has a peculiar thrill to it, while stopping just short of making him feel like he's living in a Dan Brown novel.

Ruth's eyes shine, wide and eager in the glow of her PC monitor.

"The thing is, dismissing Marian's story as a head injury, or even an illness, doesn't stand up to scrutiny," she explains, reasoning away why she has gone to so much trouble. "People in those situations recall events of their lifetimes, not stuff that happened centuries before they were born. Amnesiacs remember nothing at all. So, on a whim, I decided to check it out. I mean, curiosity got the better of me-"

"Well," he cuts her off, impatient to hear what she's found out. "Anything interesting?"

She smiles her 'cat-got-the-cream' smile. "As you know, Huntingdon – where our new man Henry was born – was an old Parish very close to Nottingham. Henry writes that he heard of many plots to usurp the King, Richard I, while he was away on the third Crusade. Richard only spent about a year in England during his whole eleven year reign. So naturally, there was dissent among the English nobles. That much we knew already. We also knew that Richard's youngest brother, Prince John, was the preferred choice – seeing as the middle brother, Geoffrey, was already dead. However, Marian mentioned a specific organisation called the Black Knights, headed by a man she just called the Sheriff. If you look here…" she breaks off, pointing to a specific paragraph in the Chronicle.

Lucas leans in close, squinting to make out the text. At first, he thinks it's in Latin, but it's more like a non-standard, pigeon English. Spelling is idiosyncratic and punctuation non-existent. But it's comprehensible, just about. Ruth, however, kindly translates for him.

"Rumours abound that the Black Knights will strike against His Grace, the King, shortly after Michaelmas. Rumours so bound in truth they set a great company of noble soldiers and common men to flight, across the seas and lands to the Holy Land to forewarn His Grace of the traitorous doings of others. As to their success, I know no more."

"So, people did travel from the area to warn the King of a plot against his life?" Lucas finally asks.

Ruth nods. "It seems so, but there's still no mention of who, or what exactly the plots were. But the Black Knights are not an invention of Marian's."

"But who are the noble soldiers?" he asks. "England had no army back then."

Ruth shrugs. "It could refer to men who'd already fought during Richard's Crusade. There was no formal, standing army; but there were still great bands of soldiers roaming the country." She pauses, looks back down at the Chronicle, carefully turning the pages. "There is one name that pops up more than once, though. Robin of Locksley." She points to a spot on the page, highlighting said Mister Locksley.

Before he can look properly, however, Ruth turns the page again, going backwards this time; further back in History. Lucas watches, enraptured and wishing he could take the whole tome home with him. But, this is one of England's greatest buried treasures. Contemporary chronicles like this, they are of inestimable value. Ruth stops several pages back from where they were, and her triumphant smile is back in place.

"Read this paragraph here," she says, pointing out the relevant part, "while I sort this patent roll out."

Ruth gets up and Lucas shifts into her vacated seat so he can read the page properly. Meanwhile, she reaches down behind her desk, to where a casket is open and she takes out a large, vellum scroll. It's once pure white surface is now a deep grey. A vivid red wax seal, broken by its original recipient many centuries ago, is large and decorated with great red, silk tassles. Ruth is so nervous with it, she can barely bring herself to touch it.

Letting her do her job, Lucas turns to the page she had pointed him too. It takes a minute for him to find it; then another to decipher it. But it's there in black and white. One small sentence that makes his heart flip backwards. Henry of Huntingdon is recalling an encounter he had on the road to Nottingham, in the year 1196, where he was accosted by: _"a small company of men-at-arms; their chief seeming to be one Guy of Gisbourne, recently returned from France. I remember Sir Guy only briefly, from our youth in Locksley. My late father cautioned against any association with him; his father being a leper, and as such, damned by the Lord Almighty."_

The shock wears off, replaced by an inexplicable sadness in him and a burning resentment against the young Henry of Huntingdon, refusing to be friends with Guy because of his sick father. He turns to Ruth, to see what else she could possibly have unearth. Spread out on her now cleared desk, is a great parchment roll. Using her flat slide to mark her place, she looks at him and summarises what is written there, for that really is in Court Latin. This is a strictly business document.

"May it be known to all here present, lords, ladies and nobles alike, that the lands, titles and estates of Locksley be hereby passed to Sir Guy of Gisbourne for the duration of the Earl's absence in the Holy Lands. All lands, titles and estates of said Parish are to be surrendered by Sir Guy unto the Earl of Huntingdon – Robin of Locksley – upon his safe return from the Crusade. If the said Earl does not return, then Guy of Gisbourne will be formally invested as Earl of Huntingdon, as and when such action becomes appropriate."

Ruth breaks off and starts returning the patent roll to its box. "That's him," she says, glancing at Lucas as she works. "The one she thought was you. She didn't make him up, either. So that's two areas of a strange, strange story that are true."

Lucas's head is a swirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He's choking on his own logic as he tries to make sense of it all. Even an hour later, when the documents and Chronicle are packed safely away, ready to be returned to their deep, underground vaults, he's still flummoxed. He and Ruth head out to The George, both starving after a heavy morning, to eat and try and reach some conclusions together. However, as they pass Harry's Office, the boss rushes out to join them and Marian's extraordinary story is forcibly put on the back burner. Still, even as they return to the real world, with its clean air and other humans to interact with, Lucas is miles away.

* * *

**Henry of Huntingdon was a real Chronicler who really did compose a Chronicle detailing "The Anarchy" - a civil war instigated by King Stephen and Maude (mother of Henry II and Richard I's grandmother). However, his son - Henry of Huntingdon jnr - has been invented by me for the purposes of the story. In this, he's simply continued his Historic "father's" Chronicle to include Henry II and Richard I. The "Huntingdon" title fitted nicely with the RH cannon story!**


	8. History Lessons

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be welcome.

**Another point, I realise I have this story set several years before the show (1197), but because I made the error way back in chapter one (where I gave the year 1192), it's a bit late to change it without disrupting continuity. Apologies for the error. **

* * *

**Chapter Eight: History Lessons  
**

Gravel crunches under the wheels of Lucas's car as he swerves off the road and into the driveway of The George. Marian gives a startled gasp, but quickly settles when she realises there's nothing wrong. That morning, she had seen her first car accident. There was nothing graphic, but the car was mangled and now, she fears as much as respects these new vehicles. He parked up and shut off the engine, plunging them into silence as the radio shut down with it. Looking across at Marian in the passenger seat, he gives her a reassuring smile.

"You'll be alright," he assures her. "Ruth and Harry just want to talk to you again."

This time, The George had been deemed appropriate, rather than dragging Marian through the rigmarole of The Grid, with its Official Secrets Act and constantly whirring machines, and not to mention the all-pervading atmosphere of impending disaster. In response, Marian tugs nervously at the cuff of her new zip-up sports top.

They find Ruth and Harry already there, sitting at the enclosed table near the back windows of the Lounge Bar. It is quieter there than in the rest of the pub, especially by London standards. Ruth gives them a wave as they pass through the double doors, Lucas pointing back for Marian's benefit.

"Go and sit down," he tells her. "I'll get the drinks. What do you want?"

The taps behind the backlit bar catch her eye. Taverns in modern London are far cleaner than the few she had seen in Nottingham. The floors are carpeted, instead of strewn with dirty rushes and sawdust from the local carpenter. Even the drinks appeared to be served in clean glasses, rather than pewter tankards that came with free scum lines from over use. But the choices on offer dazzle her, so opts for what she knows.

"Just tea, please," she says, deciding against sampling modern ales.

Instead of going to sit with Ruth and Harry on her own, she waits for Lucas to finish placing their order and walks over with him. Away from The Grid, everyone seems more relaxed. Ruth greets Lucas with a peck on the cheek and, even Harry has stopped frowning and shouting. Off The Grid, it's clear to see there's something special between Ruth and Harry. They are not being open about it, and Marian can only assume they have their reasons, but they are close, she can see it in Harry's attentiveness of his Analyst, despite the obvious age gap between them. They both greet Marian warmly, quickly dissipating the nerves that had built up all morning.

"So, Marian, how have you been getting on?" asks Harry, once the waitress has brought their drinks over.

Before she can reply, Ruth cuts in. "Harry has been fully briefed on the situation," she assures Marian. "Don't be afraid of your story sounding improbable, just tell us what you know. We've already verified some of your story – or, what we know of it."

Lucas laughs. "We've heard it all, honestly," he says, trying to set her at ease. "From the UF-ologists, to the Lizard people and the Illuminati. Inter-millennial time travelling has nothing on those people."

At this barrage of encouragement, Marian looks around at the three of them. Harry's shaking his head, muttering about the Illuminati; Ruth hides a smirk as he jokes about people who can turn into lizards. Marian supposes she ought to be reassured by this, but as she doesn't know anything real about any of it, she's only deploying guess work.

"Well, I don't know anything about lizard shapeshifters," she admits, nervously. "But I know about my time and a little of this."

"Tell us about your time," Harry prompts her. "Who were the Black Knights and what did they hope to achieve?"

Finding herself back on familiar ground, Marian falls into stride easily. "They're a group of noblemen, earls and above, who sought to assassinate King Richard and replace him with his brother, Prince John. As a reward for raising Prince John to the crown, England's land and tithes would be divided up between them. For instance, the Earl of Winchester, in return to his help, stood to get some of Surrey, all of Sussex and, er, me."

"You?" Lucas asks, brow raised.

Marian shivers at the memory. "Guy of Gisbourne forewarned me that my hand in marriage had become part of the negotiations and told me to flee," she explains. "But the Sheriff overheard his warning. Guy had to let me go, but as soon as Winchester signed the pact, Guy came after him. All the Sheriff needed was Winchester's signature, you see, so once he had that, he could renege on his promises. So Guy rescued me and …" her words trail off as she reaches the difficult part. At the time, she had done nothing to save Winchester – he was an animal. But explaining it to people who live in a time when murder is seriously frowned upon, she feels guilt all the same. "Well, Guy killed Winchester. Stabbed him and left him to die. But he only did it to save me and Winchester was repellent. He kept me in leg irons." Guilt or no, she cannot explain why she's justifying the actions of Guy of Gisbourne.

However, the murder of Winchester has no visible impact on her companions at all.

"His signature?" asks Ruth. "On what?"

"The Pact of Nottingham," she replies. "It was a pact that bound each of the Black Knights to the cause of usurpation.

Harry nods toward Ruth, who responds by noting the name of the pact on a napkin before putting it in her pocket. She felt a tremor of apprehension, realising that they were going to be checking out her story later on.

Once the napkin is put away safely, Ruth turns to look at Marian.

"I've actually been able to confirm the existence of Guy of Gisbourne," she informs Marian. "Records exist of his being given land and temporary offices. There's also a Chronicle which gives the date of his death."

Relief and sadness vie with Marian's heart. She almost laughs out loud with relief when she hears that her story has been partially proved, that she is believed. But that happiness is tempered by the sadness of hearing, for the first time, that everyone she knew is now cold in the grave. Her own common sense had informed her of everyone's death, she's not an illogical fool. But hearing it spoken like that, it snatches away the last ray of hope that one or two of her old friends may have been able to follow her into this time. Guy killed her, or tried to, but still, hearing of his death brings no satisfaction.

"How did Guy die?" she asks, quietly.

Ruth's expression softens in response to Marian's change of demeanour. "I didn't mean to be blunt," she says, lowering her voice. "But he died in October, 1193. Run through with a sword by Sheriff Vaisey and, another sword, wielded by Isabella of Shrewsbury."

It hits her like a blow to the head. Less than a year after he took her life, Guy also was dead. The fact that the Sheriff and his own sister – who he barely mentioned – was behind it, only further impacts the force of the blow.

"Also among the dead that day was one Robin of Locksley," Ruth adds. "Did you know him?"

Her hands tremble violently as she tries to take a sip of tea for fortification, but the contents spill over the sides. Tears form in her eyes, hastily scrubbed away before anyone can see them. She's not accustomed to crying; especially not crying in public in front of near strangers. But her heart breaks; how can the Sheriff have killed Robin? Robin, who outwitted the enemies even when outnumbered ten to one. Her mind reels into a vortex of confusion, before she suddenly recoils and grasps the first passing branch of hope.

"How can you know all this?" she asks. "If it happened almost a thousand years ago, how have you found this out?" It cannot be reliable.

"We found it in the Chronicle of Henry of Huntingdon. One copy has survived all these years and is kept in our national archives," Ruth explains, patient and understanding.

"I'm calling time," Lucas firmly interjects. "Five minutes, please."

Without wasting any more time, he pushes back his chair and motions to Marian to follow him outside, into the open air. She does so without hesitation and, once out in the car park, tears run freely down her face, until a pair of strong arms pull her into a tight hug.

"Bloody Hal Huntingdon and his silly chronicles," she says, between sobs. "Always in everyone's business; always demanding people's reactions to everything."

"You knew him, then?" asks Lucas, giving her a squeeze.

She nods against his chest, finally bringing her emotions under control.

"Everyone knew him; he was a pain," she says, forcing a laugh out. "He wanted to be like his father, writing down every little detail, thinking it would be preserved-" She cuts herself off, thinks again about what she's saying. "Well, he succeeded. I have to give him that!"

When Lucas releases her, she sees that he's grown pale and his eyes are ringed red. He looks shaken, almost the same as her. She's about to ask if he's alright, but Ruth appears at the door of the pub, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry," she says, "but we had to verify what you told us."

She understands, and replies with a nod.

"Come on," Lucas encourages her. "Let's go back inside and get something to eat."

Even though that afternoon's revelations have left her feeling less than ravenous, she follows the recommendations of the other three and orders fish and chips from the menu. The conversation lightens considerably as they await their meals. Modern inventions that people in this time rely on come up: computers, the internet and mobile phones. Aeroplanes and motor cars. All things that have no meaning to her, but are clearly going to become a part of her everyday life very soon. But, as they eat, the conversation falls back to Guy of Gisbourne. Once again, it's Ruth who's made the discovery.

"He was part of the Hood legends," she says, laying down her knife and fork. "The earliest reference I could find about him with regards to Robin Hood was in the sixteenth Century. A bard or story teller must have heard his story, and decided he fit the bill for a companion of that other Sheriff of Nottingham. He fell out of favour in the eighteenth century, though. He doesn't appear in any of their Robin Hood fables."

Marian almost chokes on her fish. "That was my Robin's nickname!" she exclaims happily, suddenly remembering the good times. "Everyone called him Robin Hood, but Robin of Locksley was his formal title. He was the earl of Huntingdon." As she carries on talking about Robin, she fails to notice the absolute silence and stillness of the other three, as they stare back at her in shock. She trails off slowly, looking around at them all in turn. "Er," she says. "What did I say?"

"So, he was Robin Hood, you were Marian-" Ruth begins.

"I still am," Marian points out, not ready to hear herself being referred to in past tense. "He was outlawed after defying the Sheriff. Like a fool."

Harry looks between them both. "I think you need to double check those sources, Ruth," he points out. Then, turning to Marian, he adds: "So, who else was around at that time?"

"Well, when Robin came back from the Holy Lands, he brought his servant – Much, he was the Millar's son. They found Allan A Dale somewhere, but I have no idea where. He just … appeared and didn't go away again. Then there was the Carpenter's son, Will Scarlett. Then there was John Little, but he was the size of a bear. Little John they all called him. There was the Saracen girl – Djaq. There was Annie, Guy's mistress. But she ran away when Guy used their bastard son as bait to trap Robin's gang. They only got Royston, though and I didn't know him at all. Carter was Robin's friend from the Crusade, but he wasn't around for long. I think that's it, really. You know these people? They must be in Henry's Chronicle."

She noticed Ruth noting down the names. "We've certainly heard of them," she remarks, eyes on her note paper, procured from the depths of her handbag. "Never heard of Djaq, though. Didn't think there was a girl with them, at all."

The atmosphere between changed, they finished eating in almost near silence. Whatever she had said about Robin, a wall of disbelief had suddenly fallen between them again. Not for the first time, she wanted to pack up and go back home again. Surely, if she would find solace anywhere, it would be back in Nottingham. She is fairly sure there may even be answers there, if only she could get there.

When they do start talking again, however, the subject swings right around to Sarah Caulfield. Marian jolts at the mention of her name, once again finds herself relaying the conversation she and Sarah had had the night before she and Lucas moved into the new safe house. Her Boss, Marian gathers, really wasn't the suicidal type. Forgetting the problems she left behind in the twelfth century, Marian contemplates the American, again – against her better judgement.

"She thinks I am part of your MI5, too," she explains to Harry and Ruth. "I think Desharvin might have told her that while he was holding her hostage."

Ruth nods. "It's highly likely, Harry," she agrees. "But all of you, listen. I have mobile phone records from the night of Walker's death," she pauses, lets her voice drop to barely a whisper. "She was no more than five feet away from Walker when he died. So, Marian, if this comes to trial eventually, you will need to give evidence against her."

All three of them reeled from Ruth's revelation, but with Marian, it was more marvelling at how Ruth seems to know everything. Absolutely everything.

"Stay on her, Lucas," Harry says, leaning in close and pushing his unfinished meal away. "She talks to you Marian, do you think she likes you?"

Marian shrugs. "I didn't get that impression," she replies, truthfully. "I thought she might be rather envious of the time I was spending with Lucas, actually."

Harry thinks it over. "Well," he states at length. "She positively loathes Ros and Jo-" Harry breaks off, a name greeted with fleeting sadness in all three. "Marian is the only person she's spoken to so far. Lucas, see to it they're left alone together again someday. Keep a wire on Marian, though. We need to hear it."

Lucas frowns. "Do you think we could extend the courtesy of asking Marian, first?" he retorts, brow raised.

Harry, it is clear, has never been one for tact. "She doesn't mind!" he blusters.

He's right, too. "I'll do it," she chips in, enthusiastically. "I've never been wired, but I did spy on Gisbourne and the Sheriff for Robin and the Gang."

Harry grins. "There you go, Lucas," he says, giving her a wink. "Problem solved."

Marian beams brightly, but Lucas looks far from mollified. The look on his face dampens her enthusiasm, but now isn't the time to find what his problem is. Now that she's finding her feet in this world, Marian has every intention of making herself useful to these people. As they discuss business, they have more drinks to ease the process along. A large bottle of wine, enough to tempt Lucas into leaving the car behind and getting a taxi home. Either way, Marian finally feels herself slotting into place. A meeting with the horrendous Sarah – it will be a sinch.


	9. The Dry Run

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, reviews would be appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Dry Run**

"HELLO! … HELLO! … LUCAS? … CAN… YOU… HEAR… ME?"

Flinching, Lucas recoils from the mobile phone he had been holding to his ear, wincing as Marian's voice continues to bellow from the receiver end. Tentative and cautious, he returns the phone to his ear, as though it may burn him while, with his free hand, he draws the living room curtain aside. Marian's standing at the bottom of their building's driveway; frowning, with the phone gripped tight while she continues to shout. A young mother pushes her pram past the scene, casting Marian a bemused look as she goes.

"Yes, Marian-" he tries to interject. "I can hear you!" he adds, a little more forcefully.

Outside, Marian stops pacing and looks towards the window and, seeing Lucas looking, flashes him a big grin.

"I CAN HEAR YOU, TOO!" she thunders back at him. "THIS IS SO EXCITING!"

Behind Lucas, seated on the sofa, Tariq Masood doubles over with laughter. Only a dark look from Lucas straightens him out again.

"Marian," he sighs down the phone as he turns back to the window. "You're waking the dead; talk normally."

He watches her face darken in confusion. "What, even like this?" she says, a lot more quietly. Lucas can barely hear over the tinnitus she's just given him.

"Yes," he replies. "That's more like it."

Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "Can you even hear this?"

"Yes! Now, I want you to walk down the road outside and keep talking to me."

The day had been eventful. Tariq called round several hours before hand, bearing a broad range of all the latest mobile phones. Phones with in built GPS, Wi-Fi coverage, apps for this, that, the other and everything in between. Phones that could probably wake you up and make you a cup of tea in the morning. In the end, Lucas decided that a bog-standard mobile phone that Marian could use to make calls and send text messages would suffice, at least until she learned how to do that.

Tariq looks up at him from the sofa, surrounded by the detritus of boxes and cellophane wrappings of his stock-in-trade: mind boggling technology.

"Where did you say she comes from again?" he asks Lucas, confusion etched in his face.

"I didn't," Lucas curtly replies. "And trust me, it's not her fault."

"Are you talking to me, or Tariq?" Marian's voice whispers almost silently from the receiver.

Lucas almost curses, as though he's forgotten he is still holding his own mobile. "Sorry Marian, two way conversation. You can just talk normally, you know."

"I know, but I feel like I'm talking to myself," she points out, self-consciously. "I can't see you anymore. Can you still hear me alright?"

He takes a deep breath. "Yes, Marian. You're doing fine. Now hang up and call me back. Do you remember how to do that?"

"The red button, I remember. I'm doing it now."

A second later and the line goes dead. Lucas moves to sit on the arm of an easy chair beside the sofa. He and Tariq look at each other, shaking their heads sadly.

"She hung up okay, then?" Tariq asks, a trace of optimism in his voice.

"Oh yeah, she's managed that. But it's the call back that's worrying me," he confesses. "A much more complicated manoeuvre."

"Mm," replies Tariq, brow raised sceptically as he gives his chin a rub.

Lucas returns his pessimism and places the mobile phone down on a coffee table that sits between them. They both watch it expectantly, as if it's about to burst into a song and dance routine at any second. Both men are aware of the passing of each second while the caller display remains blank and silent, no clue of an impending call coming through. Five seconds … ten … twenty…

"D' you think we should go and find her?" asks Tariq, briefly glancing up at Lucas.

Lucas keeps his eyes trained on the phone, willing her call to come through. "Nah," he insists. "Just give her a minute. It's her first time doing it alone."

The expectation swells inside the room; seconds continue ticking past. Then, suddenly, the phone trills into life. The name "Marian K" flashes up on the screen and both Lucas and Tariq give a cheer at the same time. Lucas snatches the phone up and jabs the answer button.

"Marian, you did it. Well done!" he says, relieved and jubilant that she's learning so fast.

"That's you Lucas!" she trills, excited and amazed by her own success in return. So much so, she forgets her earlier embarrassment at 'talking to herself.'

"Yes, it's me. Now, hang up again, and this time, call Tariq's mobile number. And start walking back towards the house before you get yourself lost."

"Okay, Lucas!" she exclaims happily, a second before the phone goes dead again.

Tariq retrieves his phone from the breast pocket of his denim jacket with a grin. He looks at Lucas with a wicked glint in his deep, brown eyes. "Give it a week," he points out. "And I'll have her talking just like me!"

Lucas is horror struck. "Dear Lord, no!" he retorts with a laugh. "But surely," he adds, turning seriously. "The computer genius of Tariq Masood cannot be matched?"

"Yeah, I said she'll talk like me," Tariq corrects Lucas with a grin. "I didn't say she would match me in any way. Obviously!"

"Obviously!" Lucas parrots, rolling his eyes.

For all his pretended cockiness, Tariq was a personable young man and Lucas certainly could think of no one he would trust more with this task. He was a match for Malcolm Wynne Jones, but also possessed a common touch, whereby he could draw people to him. He wasn't aloof, or lofty with his expertise; he wanted to – and was happy to – share what he knew. Even if, half the time, most of what he's saying is flying over people's heads higher than a jumbo jet.

Lucas's musings on Tariq are interrupted by the chiming of the techie's mobile.

"It's her!" Tariq declares triumphantly as he answers. "Hallo, Marian."

Lucas cannot hear Marian's reply, so at least she isn't bawling down the phone any more. But now, Marian is facing her toughest challenge yet. The wire and bug. They have been fitted discreetly into the neck of her zip-up top. The wire has been laced into the place where the neck strings draw the hood down when worn properly. There is a small listening device inserted into her ear, controlled by a small button that is concealed in a pendant worn around her neck. Tariq takes his time to explain it all again, clear and concise. Meanwhile, Lucas sets up the laptop they're using to both listen to and instruct her.

"When you press the button behind the pendant, make it look as if you're just repositioning it. Something mundane and normal that no one else would notice. Now hang up, and remember, your code name is Alpha One. Only talk when absolutely necessary and be discreet."

The call ends and both Lucas and Tariq sit on the floor at the laptop, on the coffee table. On the screen is a display measuring sound wavelength. After a second, it flickers into life and Lucas leans into the microphone.

"Come in Alpha One," he states, eyes fixed on the screen.

Marian's reply is precisely on script. "Receiving, Lima Team," she whispers back at them, from wherever she is. "Requesting precise location."

Her voice sends bright green lines shooting up the screen of the laptop as the pitch of her voice is recorded. Background sounds of barking dogs and children shouting register, dimly but undoubtedly there. Lucas and Tariq flash each other a grin from over their microphones. Meanwhile, Tariq taps at the keyboard, causing another window to pop up with details pinpointed on a map of London.

"Alpha One, your precise location is Woollaston Gardens," Tariq informs her.

Lucas looks up at the clock, noting with a start that it's almost seven pm. "Okay Alpha One," he states into his microphone. "Don't return yet, I have a new target."

"Copy that, Lima Team," Marian murmurs.

Once again, the two men look at each other, impressed.

"Alpha One, keep going till you reach the bottom of Woollaston Gardens and come to the junction between Ravenhill Road and Windsor Park."

Tariq covers his microphone. "Are you not bringing her in?"

Lucas grins. "Not yet," he replies, also covering his mic so Marian doesn't get confused. "She's doing so well!"

"Home, Lima Team," Marian's voice chimes in, a few minutes later.

Lucas pulls up the map again and consults it carefully. "This mission is of utmost importance, Alpha One. Turn left, to go down Ravenhill Road and stop when you reach the set of buildings eight doors down from your current location."

Tariq shrugs at Lucas, but Lucas merely presses his finger to his lips.

"Okay, Alpha One," he says, once Marian indicates her arrival. "You'll see the row of cafes and diners on your left. Walk inside the one called "Pizza the Action" and do not respond to us, just do as we say."

Tariq grins as he realises what Lucas was up to all along; rewards his colleague with a thumbs up. Lucas has to stop himself from laughing.

"Oh Lima team, you've sent me to get your dinner, haven't you?" Marian sighs, still careful to remain in spy mode.

"And Tariq's!" he protests innocently. "And yours!"

Seconds later, and they can hear the proprietor greet Marian cordially as she enters the takeaway.

"Alpha One, do not respond to me at all. Order one large double cheese pizza margherita, please," Lucas nods to Tariq.

Tariq waits until Marian has relayed Lucas's order before placing his own. She repeats it word for word, not responding to them at all – just as she was shown earlier that day.

"Don't forget your own order," Lucas reminds her. "Oh, and once you have the targets safely in your custody, go next door and get a bottle of red wine and some beers."

If they had emotion detectors, Lucas can well imagine what they would be doing at that moment. He can almost feel the waves of indignation radiating down the wire. His smirk widens even more as he begins working out her quickest route home.

* * *

Pizza being another new thing in Marian's life, she nibbles at it delicately before deciding it's another winner. She enjoys it immensely to the point where her pride sufficiently recovers at having been used as a servant for the evening. That, and the way the two men look back at her from across the dining room table, all hang-dog apologetics and big eyed innocence, her heart forms itself to forgiveness. Besides, she did find it rather funny.

"I hope I bloody well passed after all that," she states between bites of pizza, fighting against the strips of melted cheese adhering stubbornly to her chin.

"You did brilliantly," Lucas assures her.

"And anyway," Tariq chips in. "We're going to go through a few more dry runs before we set you up in a meeting with Sarah Caulfield. It'll only happen once you're absolutely confident about what you're doing."

The 'dry run' was what she had been doing all day. The lingo may come easily to her, but she still feels ill at ease with much of the practise. The strange feeling of someone able to track her, seemingly on a whim, or direct her with instructions directly into her ear from miles away. When Tariq told her about the tracker, she thought it was the same as the ones hunters used on prey, an identifying mark. It is very similar, though, just much more discreet. However, the meeting with Sarah Caulfield excites her more than she cares to admit.

Lucas drains his glass of wine before setting it down beside his plate. "I know this little mission seemed trivial, and not to mention a little bit cheeky," he admits, suppressing his trademark smirk. "But it was a perfect opportunity for us to direct you through an op, without placing you in any danger at all. What we did there is, basically, just like the real thing."

A tremor of nerves punctures her earlier excitement. "Did I really do okay?" she asks, her voice growing tremulous.

Lucas frowns as he tops up his glass, mulling it over. "Just one thing," he said. "When you realised what the purpose of your mission was, you said something-"

"When I realised I was getting your dinner?"

"That was it," he confirms. "Don't do that on a real op. It could cost the mission, at best. At worst, it could cost your life."

As ever, Tariq's was the voice of moderation. "Although Lucas is right," he points out. "If you do blow your cover, we'll have back up and we'll be able to get you out of that situation pretty quickly. So, try not to worry too much."

With a mouthful of his dinner, Lucas could only nod in agreement.

"That's called an 'extraction' isn't it?" she asks, trying to remember all the right terms and euphemisms these people talk in.

Lucas nods again as he swallows. "Don't worry, it won't come to that."

Once they have eaten, Tariq takes his leave and Marian shows him to the door of their safe house. His taxi is already waiting by the time they get there, so they bid farewell with a kiss on the cheek before he slips away into the night. As she watches the cab disappear up the street, she muses, not for the first time, on the life she left behind in Nottingham. There are similarities. MI5 track and capture terrorists who threaten the safety of the nation, just like she and Robin tracked the activities of the Black Knights and the Sheriff. This, however, is beyond sophisticated.

When she returns to the living room, Lucas has the laptop open on the table. It is the one device she has not yet been guided through.

"Can I see?" she asks, coming to halt behind his shoulder.

He twists his neck to look at her. "Sure," he replies, "pull up a seat and I'll show you some of what it does."

He tapped, seemingly, on the plastic near the keys to make the screen go blank. But this close up, Marian can see that there's a pitted, tactile square marked out clearly on the laptop, with two buttons, that Lucas is using to navigate his way around the laptop. This square clearly functions the same as the plastic 'mouse' she had seen Lucas and others using on their bigger, desk top computers. He rotated the laptop so that she could use it herself.

"Press that button to make the power come on," he said, guiding her to the right spot.

Moments later, a sound played as the backlighting came on and a password was requested.

"It's Blake01," he points out, but types it in himself, leaning over her to do so. "Ruth will show you how to type properly."

The desktop loads, a large picture of Lucas in a clinch with Sarah Caulfield appears on screen. Most of his face, what's visible, is further obscured by small icons.

"Ignore that big blue 'E', that's Internet Explorer and it's crap," he explains. "Double click the icon for Google Chrome, like this."

He taps the touchpad twice in quick succession to show her how to do it, and then gets her to repeat it. She smiles as she gets it right after her fourth try. She reads the word "Google" in big letters on the screen.

"See that bar there," he points on the screen. "Click on that and a cursor appears there."

She follows the instructions, guiding her pointer over the screen laboriously. "Got it," she confirms.

"Now, use these keys to type in a query. Anything at all. Then press your return key, here."

He points to the right key. She thinks hard as she searches for the correct keys. "MI5" she eventually types, looking up as she locates each key to make sure they have appeared on the screen. Short and sweet, as she learns the layout of a keyboard. Then presses the return button. In a flash, the screen changes. He instructs her on how to open the search results, which she does, smiling as she the page opens and she accesses her fist ever website. The great portcullis of the Ministry of Defence appears on screen. He then points out the links that bring up more information on separate pages.

"So, it's like a huge book," she says. "Every website or link is a different page."

"Basically, yes," he concurs, placing an arm around the back of her chair to supervise. "Let me show you what we try to prevent."

Retrieving his arm, he types rapidly into the search engine, bringing up images alone (instead of websites) and narrates what she is seeing. Two vast towers, crumbling to the ground as people, human beings, fall from the heavens. Smoke billows into the clear blue skies in the background. "New York City, on September 11th, 2001," he explains. "Two aircraft flown into the world trade centre, thousands of civilians killed."

Her eyes widen in sorrow and fear. "Who would do that?" she asks.

He runs another search, this time resulting in a mangled double decker bus, and a train station torn apart; the walking wounded and the dead intermingle in the confusion of the attack. Her heart twists painfully as she instantly recognises London. "London, July 7th, 2006," he explains. "The same terrorist organisation did this. Then again in Madrid, Spain."

He brings up more images. Clearly, they're not doing a very good job of stopping terrorists. As if reading her thoughts, he turns to her with a sad smile.

"We can never stop all attacks and, incidentally, MI5 operate only in the United Kingdom, some will slip our nets. Like these. But we gather intelligence, infiltrate organisations so we can stop the vast majority of them."

Marian's mouth runs dry as she studies each picture in turn. In so many ways, humanity has advanced. With phones and computers; Hospitals and women's rights. But in others, inhumanity has also developed, grown worse and ever more extreme.

"Is that why everything you do is secret?" she asks, trying to hide the fact that she's on the brink of tears.

"Even our families don't know what we do," he explains, typing once again. "We don't set the barometer of morality, but sometimes, we do intervene in other country's affairs."

Marian frowns. "Surely, though, that is wrong. They need to stop their own terrorists and we cannot police them."

He types the world "holocaust" into the search engine. "But sometimes," he reasons. "The terrorists are the ones who're in control of the country. Sometimes, the terrorists are disguised as statesmen and their people are ones paying the heaviest price."

"What do you mean?" she asks, frowning as he hits the return key.

Her question is answered by the images flashing up on the screen. Black and white death camps; gimlet eyed prisoners hanging on barbed wire fences. The walking dead, awaiting their pit graves. Emaciated corpses banked at a hole in the ground, waiting to be bulldozed into the earth. Armed guards look on, indifferent and aloof to the human suffering all around them.

"Sometimes, it is our moral duty, as members of the human race, to intervene," he clarifies. Humanity knows no land borders. All men will be brothers.

Lucas did not intend for this to become so serious and he shuts the page down before Marian can become upset by what she's seen. "That's enough for today," he states, trying to add some levity to his tone. "But, that's the sort of work we do; to try and prevent things like that."

Before he can walk away, she grabs his arm. They look in each other's eyes, intently as they try to gage each other's thoughts. "Lucas," she says. "I want to do everything I can to help. I'll do anything, I promise."

After a second's hesitation, he sits back down again. "I don't know about this organisation that Sarah mentioned, but we think she's up to her eyeballs in it," he explains. "All you need to do now is get as much information from her as possible."

She is going to do it; she has never been more certain of anything before in her life.


End file.
